Star child
by walmer92
Summary: 7th year. After a chance encounter in the hall way Harry and Draco are both left with loving feelings but will they be able to admit them? warning: Slash. PreHBP
1. Beginnings

Disclaimer: I am a shameless Cuckoo, i am borrowing some one else characters for a while, and playing with them. they don't belong to me, they belongto JKR, may she live forever. and i'll put them back when i'm done. honest.

Draco's POV

I was walking down a corridor when it happened. It wasn't anywhere you'd expect it to happen. It wasn't on the Quidditch Pitch in the middle of a heated chase toward the same golden target. It wasn't in Potions, as we glared at each other hatefully over our cauldrons, that the hate started to melt away. It wasn't even by the lake, or in the forest or the Astronomy Tower, or any of the numerous romantic settings that Hogwarts has to offer.

It was merely a corridor. It had the normal amount of creaking empty armour. It was neither hot nor cold, merely mellow, a warm spring day. The sun was shining normally outside, not bothering to shine itself in such a way as to create a halo around his head as he walked by. It was entirely ordinary, and had it not been for peeves, I doubt we would have done more than notice each other, if that, in the crush of students rushing from one class to another.

I blame it entirely on the wretched Poltergeist, and to this day I cannot decide whether to thank him, or fulfil Filches dearest wish, and find a way to rid the castle of his childish pranks. He was walking by, surrounded as usual by a crowd of friends. How desperately now I long to be one of them, just so that I could be near him. I would become what I hate merely to have a chance to touch him, to be with him and talk with him as they do.

He was distracted, running his fingers through his already messy hair, barely listening to the noise going on around him. I watched him even then, although I was wary of an insult or hex, rather than that he would look at me - or that he would not.

Now when I stare at him, the need for him to look back is a finely tuned balance of pleasure and pain, I hope desperately for some sort of recognition, yet I am at the same time fearful that I will not be able to inject the same hatred in my gaze, the same venom in my voice that he is accustomed to. Scared that he will look at me, and see me for what I really am. Namely, a fool.

Once I would have blamed him for my weakness, now I find myself unable to do so, and my ire is directed upon the pitiful excuse for a ghost that haunts this place, causing trouble at every turn. When he appeared through the side of the wall, and tripped him up as I passed, without knowing it he caused me to fall, caused my life to spin on its axis as surely as he sent the boy crashing into me, and we both fell to the ground.

We had both been trailing behind our respective groups; he lost in thought, I intent on studying him, always intent on finding a weakness. Only a few people looked around to see if we were alright, but we both waved them on. I don't think anyone realised who they had left together, tangled in a heap on the floor. If they had known who the other person was, they would have stayed, some to protect him or myself, others to watch the almost certain battle of wits that would follow, and still others intent on letting no such thing happen. But no one seemed know who both of the pair was. Once again, I will never be able to decide whether I regret this, or am grateful for it.

As soon as we became aware of whom we were lying with, we began to try and disentangle ourselves as quickly as possible, but only ended up more hopelessly entwined. Eventually we managed to sit up. He was sitting on my leg, which was rapidly beginning to cramp.

He attempted to stand up at the same time as I tried to pull my leg out from under him, and somehow we both ended up on the floor again, this time separately. And for some reason that at the time I could not fathom I felt a sense of loss in not touching him. I shook my head, trying to clear it, not understanding these strange feelings that had so suddenly appeared within me.

He sat up quickly, and looked around. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see his glasses lying near my hand, and watching him grope blindly along the floor, realised that he couldn't see without them. Without thinking, I picked them up and handed them to him. He seemed surprised, but took them with a muttered word of thanks, and as he put them on I sat up. Then he turned to look at me.

Suddenly I was staring into brilliant green eyes. For what seemed an eternity we stared at each other. suddenly I found my eyes sweeping his face, taking in his full pink lips, his hollow cheeks, his slightly upturned nose, and once again his beautiful green eyes. As he looked at me they flashed with an emotion I couldn't read, and darkened to a forest green.

His hand lifted as though it would touch my cheek. My breath quickened in anticipation, but then his hand was past my face and onto the window sill, as he used it to pull himself up. He gathered his books without saying a word, and set off, almost running down the corridor after his friends. I stared after him, bewildered.

My mind raced as it looked back over the past few moments, the way I had missed his touch, the green of his eyes, and the tilt of his nose, and that soft pink mouth.

When I think back to it now, I would laugh if it had been anyone else. I must have presented a comical picture, sitting in the middle of the hallway, my robes in a disarray around my knees, my normally perfect hair mussed and my mouth and eyes wide, staring after the disappearing figure of my enemy, Harry Potter.

The impossible had happened.

Draco Malfoy had fallen in love.

Harry's POV.

We're lying in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor. As soon as I see who is with me I move faster, terrified that being so close to him will reveal my secret. all this seems to do is make it harder to get away from him, and the dangerous irrational part of me is flying, delighting in being to close to him.

My skin is humming, my breathing is erratic, and I struggle desperately against the side of myself that would like nothing more than to stay exactly where it is, in the arms of Draco Malfoy. Finally the battle inside me ends, and we are no longer entangled.

As I sit up, I realise that I am still sitting on top of his leg. Immediately I try to stand up, but he pulls his leg out at the same time, and I trip, sending us both tumbling again. I sit up quickly, desperate to get away from this dangerous situation, but I have lost my glasses.

I feel for them blindly, only to have the pressed in my hand a moment later. For a moment I'm shocked that Malfoy would bother. Normally he would be ecstatic at the idea of watching me stumble blindly around. I take the glasses quickly, but as soon as I put them on I am confronted by silver eyes.

I stare into them silently, trying to drag my gaze away. I finally succeed, but then I see his sweet pink mouth, and feel his hip pressing into mine, and I am lost. Without thinking, I lift up my hand to touch his cheek.

He leans into my hand, and I moan slightly at the contact. Then I draw his face toward mine, and my lips touch his smooth soft ones, and then we are kissing and it is like nothing I have ever imagined.

His lips are warm, and I tentatively reach out my tongue to lick them, asking, o begging for entrance which he gives. I explore every corner of his mouth, then return to curl my tongue around his

. He tastes of honey and warmth and the peach juice I see him drink every morning at breakfast. He leans forward and I fall back, our lips still locked in a passionate embrace. His hands are undoing the buttons of my robe and as my head touches the floor-

Harry Potter sat up in bed, gasping. He quickly poked his head outside of his curtains to make sure that none of his house mates had awoken. Fortunately the only sounds emitting from the beds grouped around the room were the syncopated snores of Ron and Neville.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry flopped onto his back. It had been months since the corridor incident, and yet he still dreamt about it every night. He had known for a long time that he liked boys. In fact, it had not been until he had come to Hogwarts that he realised that most boys liked girls.

He had never had any contact with people his own age, he had never watched TV, and he had never been allowed to read any books other than what they had been given in school. He had never had the opportunity to listen to fairytales in which the handsome Prince won the beautiful Princess. So he had assumed that everyone else was the same as him.

When he came to Hogwarts, and had listened to his friends talking about the girls they liked and, as they became older, what they would like to do to them, he realised that in yet another way, he was different from everyone else.

At first it had made him feel even more lonely than before, this was just one other thing that set him apart from everyone else. But eventually he had confided in his friends, and had come to accept this part of him. What he did find hard to accept however, was the boy he chose to fall in love with. Draco Malfoy. He had asked himself over and over again if he had gone insane. He really suspected he might have.

After all, Draco Malfoy was the school's most notorious playboy. Over the past two years he had been rumoured to have had an affair with almost every girl from fourth year to seventh, including several Gryffindors. But there were no rumours whatsoever of him being gay.

This meant that Harry was in love with a very sexually active heterosexual, who hated him, tried to piss him off at every turn, and was the son of the right hand man of the guy that wanted to kill him.

Great, just great. He could not have made a worse choice. When he had first realised that he was crushing on Malfoy, it hadn't worried him, he had had crushes before, and they had come and gone easily enough. But that day in the corridor had changed everything. He had felt desperate to touch the boy beside him; to touch him, kiss him, claim him as his own. It had taken everything in him to reach past Malfoy and use the window sill to lever himself up, instead of caressing his cheek.

That was the day he had fallen in love. From that day forward, every moment spent around Malfoy had been a pleasurable torment. Every time he saw him, he had to resist the urge to stare at him, almost frantic with the need to meet the beautiful pools of silver.

Every time he saw Parkinson or Zabini or any one of the girls that constantly swarmed around Malfoy so much as touch him, he had to physically restrain himself from ripping Malfoy from their midst.

And for months now he had had that dream every single night. Every night he would see himself collide with Malfoy, watch as they both fell to the ground, and tried to disentangle them. Every night he felt again the thrill of having Malfoy close to him, and every night he gave into the temptation that he had been unable to give in to in reality. Every night he felt the wonder of Malfoy's lips on his own, and every night, just as they began to kiss in earnest, he would awake, covered in sweat and achingly hard.

Every night he would have to reach beneath the covers and bring himself to a frantic release, screaming silently into the cold night air as he pictured Draco's naked body. Sometime he would try to resist the temptation, but time did not alleviate his need, and he would lie there in the dark, unable to sleep.

In the end he would give in to his longing, and then fall asleep immediately, each time hoping that the dream would not come again that night, but waking strangely disappointed every night that it did not.

Draco had entered his mind, the mere idea of him sent his heart beat racing, and there was nothing he could do to escape.

All he could do was wait silently in the sea of emotion that was drowning him - and pray that death came soon.

It was silent on the roof that night. For once he wished that the clouds covered the stars. He remembered the first time he had really seen the stars. They were never visible from the Dursley's house in Surrey. The light from the street lamps made it impossible to see them.

He had seen them properly for the first time on the day he had come to Hogwarts. Sitting in the small boat with Ron to cross the lake, he had suddenly been confronted by the sight of the castle. And at the same time the sight of the stars.

The two things were mixed up in his mind, Hogwarts and the stars.

Magic and the stars.

They were his sanctuary when life became unbearable, when the pressure of being who he was became a weight to heavy for his slim shoulders. Always before the stars had looked down on him kindly, but now there was a cold glare to their light, and they seemed to mock him with their indifference.

He reached out with a finger and traced a shape in the air, following the line of the stars. His hand moved slowly but surely, tracing over and over again a familiar pattern. The dragon constellation.

He had heard Draco being called 'Dragon' many times before by the people that surrounded him, the hangers on that panted at his feet, desperate for association with the Malfoy name.

He could never bring himself to call him that. But still, he would always associate his love with the dragon stars; like the stars, he was cold, emotionless, yet beautiful, his eyes the shining white silver of stars, his hair woven out of their light.

His hand traced out the dragon, wishing its namesake would come to him, wishing that both of them could be covered by cloud, and lost forever in the sky.

It was silent on the roof that night. For once he wished that the clouds covered the stars. He remembered the first time he had really seen the stars for hat they were. He had been eight years old.

It was Christmas Eve, and he had crept out of bed to find his Christmas presents. Silent as a mouse, he had tiptoed along to fathers study. This was the one room in the house that he forbidden to enter, so it made sense that they would hide his presents there.

He opened the thick wooden door very quietly, expecting to find simply a dark empty study on the other side. Noise was the first thing that assailed him, shouts previously unheard through the sound-proofed door and thick stone walls. His mother was lying on the floor, her beautiful blond hair spread out around her.

There was the shape of a handprint on her cheek, and a gash had opened under her eye. The blood leaked out, mingling with her hair, changing it's gold to hellish red, congealing into sticky clumps. She lay there, barely moving at all, staring up at his father with wide blue eyes shimmering with tears. But the tears had not yet fallen; she blinked her eyes fiercely and bit her lip, refusing to show any sign of her pain.

Draco's father stood above, cold and terrible, staring dispassionately down at his bleeding wife. He was wearing nothing but his trousers, and his own blond hair swept magnificently over his shoulders.

Draco had always been proud of his father before then, but now he was merely afraid. The kindly giant who had taken care of him and indulged his every whim was gone, replaced by this ogre wearing his father's body.

He was shouting at his mother, so loudly that it hurt Draco's ears, but his voice was completely neutral. He spat out hard, dirty, disgusting words, words that Draco did not understand, but instinctively knew were wrong.

He stood there, a tiny eight year old, listening to his father horribly degrade his mother. For long moments he simply stood there, frozen with shock. There was a battle going on in his mind. He wanted to charge inside and protect his mother, but he could not move. In the end he turned and ran.

He ran and he had never felt so ashamed. He ran through the cold dark corridors of his house - he could no longer call this place a home. Home was where you felt safe and loved, and he had never felt so unsafe and unloved in his life.

He slipped into the kitchen, and out of the kitchen window. His bare feet padded across the grass of the manors formal garden, barely noticing the cold of the frost that had settled on the ground.

His feet took him quickly along the familiar pathways, until he reached the one tree that he was able to climb without help from his father. The place he ran when he was upset, and his mother wasn't there to make him stop crying.

Almost blindly, he reached for the branches, and swung himself into the tree, higher and higher until he reached the platform his father had had the house elves build for him. He curled up in a ball and stared at the stars.

With his finger he traced the dragon constellation that his mother had shown him. She had always loved astronomy, and had told him that every night she carried him; she had looked up at the stars, so that he could drink in their beauty. Every night since the day he was born she had shown him the stars, shown him his namesake, the dragon constellation. He was her star child, she told him.

But it was only on that night that he had seen the stars for what they were. A sanctuary. After sitting there for what seemed like hours, he went back to house, and carefully peeked into the study.

His mother was lying on the couch now. The blood on her face had dried, but there was new blood, flowing from in between her legs. Carefully he went and shook her awake, realising that she would not want to be found like this by the house elves. He went with the bathroom, and sat on the toilet seat while she bathed the blood off and then performed a concealment charm to cover the gash on her cheek.

That was only the first time of many that he had to hide in the dark, almost bursting with shame and fear. Only the first time he had to escort his bleeding and bruised mother to the bathroom, and help her conceal her injuries. And the only comfort he could find was in the stars.

He remembered all this as he lay on the hard rooftop, uncaring of the cold seeping through his clothes. He reached out a hand, as he had done so many times before, to trace his constellation in the stars.

But this time there was no comfort to be found. He looked at the dragon in the sky and hated it. He knew that Harry must hate it as well, as he hated him. His name was in the stars, and as Harry hated him and his name, so he must hate the stars.

Draco hated the silvery light that shone on him, showing him for what he was; a child of the stars. His name in the stars could give him no comfort while Harry hated him.

And the despised stars stared down upon Hogwarts, upon the school of magic, and they felt for them as much as stars can feel. For the first time in over millennia, the stars felt pity. Felt pity for the two staring up at them.

They had observed many lovers come and go, in happiness and pain for years. But now two boys lay under the stars, on the twin towers of the school, dark and light, the two sides of the same coin. And they both traced a dragon in the sky.

And the stars, as such as they could, wept. Then they spoke softly to one another in whispers, talking and plotting, for the immortals beings that were the stars could not stand to feel such pain.

But the two boys lay unknowing under the stars, tracing again and again the same uncomforting shape in the sky.

Harry's POV.

I'm simply sitting at the Gryffindor table in the great hall. As usual I am trying to hide my need to glance over the Slytherin table, to see whether or not he is there.

It is an addiction, these forbidden glances, this love that I hold in my heart. Every glance at him lessens the pain a little, and sends my heart faster on its downward spiral into oblivion.

I do whatever I can these days to feed my addiction. Ron was horrified the first time he discovered me reading one of Hermione's romance novels.

These are poorly written stories, with no real plot or content, merely hundreds of unoriginal variations on the same theme, each with highly improbable romantic situations. and yet when I read of some woman being lovingly taken into her lovers arms, see the words of his clichéd declaration of love, my heart beats a little faster, the pain drops away for just a moment, knowing that somewhere out there, people really do love.

I am a romantic, a fact I try to hide from even my closest friends. I cannot help following any love story I can find, obsessively following it through to its conclusion, until I must find a new object to sate me.

But when it comes to real life, my life, I am a cynic. As much as I long, yearn, to believe in love, I cannot think of it as anything but a destroyer. Something that comes into your heart and tears it to pieces.

At night, when I drop back through the window of Gryffindor tower, I unlock the small chest I keep at the side of my bed and pull out a sheaf of parchments.

I am good a DADA, I enjoy transfiguration and charms, but what I love most of all is description. These papers contain all the physical evidence of my love for him.

Some are pictures, drawn from surreptitious glances across the room. Others are poems full of heartbreak and stars, describing the only way I can the pain that I feel.

But most of all, there are stories. Hundreds of love stories; different, I hope from the awful romances that I cannot help but read.

Love stories about me and him, when I feel as if I can bear the pain no longer.

Of him and someone else when I hate myself for loving him, a girl when I am merely sad; a boy when I am at my most ironic or bitter.

Sometimes they are of me with someone else, when I hate him. In some inexplicable way, these stories are payback for what he puts me through, denying myself to him on paper when in life I will never have the opportunity. Once again they are with both genders, depending on my mood.

Sometimes the characters will be close to him, or to me, or complete strangers. It all depends on which stage of self loathing I happen to be in.

But most of my stories are not about either of us, they are about another world, full of people that don't exist. I write about girls mostly, finding it impossible to pour myself into another boy. It is too close, too painful.

These stories are always different, the only similarities being in that I can identify completely with one character - and not at all with the other. Writing about others pain soothes my own; it allows me to channel it into something good, useful, without having to feel it myself.

I think about this as I sit at breakfast, trying so very hard not to turn my head. I promise myself that the moment I get back to the dorm, I will allow myself another 'fix,' another feeding of my addiction.

But then he walks into the hall. His hair is perfect, reminding me of woven starlight. He hates me, just as the stars do now. His robes are impeccable, just skimming the floor above his ankles, seeming to be made of soft velvet. But the velvet of his cheek is far more enticing, it is all I can do not to reach out and try to touch it.

His grey eyes skin over the hall as he strides forward. The moment they touch me I duck my head, but the pressure of his gaze does not fade. Then it is gone and I look up.

I am on the end of the bench, and he must pass me to reach his own table. As he goes past, his hand accidentally knocks against my elbow. Sparks fly up my arm, and even minutes later, I can feel where he touched me.

It is then that I realise that what I have is not enough. I can no longer be satisfied by my 'quick fixes.' I need all of him. Everything I can have.

I refuse to stay crawling in the shadows any longer. If it takes everything in me I will have him.

I mean, I've face the Dark Lord; I can seduce Draco Malfoy, right? Right?

* * *

this is my first H/D fic so i hope you like it. i think i may have channeled a little to much of myself into it, so if it sound to un-Harry or un-Draco like, please let me know. in fact, if you have any criticisms or comments, iwould love to hear them. i need all the help i can get.


	2. Note

i just want to apologise for not updating. i writye everything on my laptop, and theres a problem with it right now. i'll try and update as soon as i can. i'm sure it's not gd enough for you to be that disappointed anyway. hope u enjoyed it though. and thanx to everyone hu reviewed. your angels.


	3. Decisions

Draco's POV.

I walk into the Great Hall. I am exhausted after another sleepless night spent out on the roof, tracing my constellation over and over again in the stars.

Night after night I stay there, refusing to give in to the needs of my body. It craves sleep, as a drowning man craves air, but my heart craves far more for Potter. My mind, the logical side of me that is free from emotion, is the only thing still keeping me sane. It keeps me awake every night, knowing that if it does not, I will dream.

I will dream of him, of his arms around me, his lips on mine, his black hair silky beneath my fingers. And when I wake, the pain of loss is so great; it is more than my heart can stand. So I do not sleep.

Instead I sustain myself, barely, with wakefulness potions, made with ingredients stolen during my Potions classes. Occasionally I will beg a Dreamless sleep potion from Madame Pomfrey, but I cannot take them very often. She will not allow me them more than once a month, because of their addictive qualities.

This makes me laugh, a wry, bitter laugh, without humour. I am already addicted, I doubt that adding another substance to the list would do me great harm. And so, because of Potter, I do not sleep. I refuse to call him Harry, even to myself; just the sound of the name sends shivers down my spine.

When I am near him, when I see him, my heartbeat accelerates. I begin to tremble, and it feels as though my stomach has been invaded by bats, rather than butterflies. I am aware that I sound like an adolescent school girl. And these are only the least of my physical symptoms. More than once I have found myself eternally grateful for that fact that wizards wear robes.

I feel ridiculous, and I fear that everyone around me feels this in me as well. I can no longer take pride even in the Malfoy name, the name that he hates. So I pretend. I become even more obnoxious than usual.

Oh I am well aware that my earlier behaviour toward him was of the very worst kind. I have never been delusional; I never thought that my actions toward him were justified. They were merely what I was told, trained to do. But now, when everyone around me shrinks in fear, when I have never been crueler to the people around me, he feels nothing of it. I cannot bring myself to hurt him in any way. Even his friends no longer bear the brunt of my anger, for I know that to hurt them is to hurt him.

Indeed, not two days ago I saved a Gryffindor from one of my fellow housemates. Thomas. I never thought I would see the day when I could look at Thomas without feeling nauseous, let alone try and save him.

He didn't know it was me, of course. He merely knew that someone hit Crabbe with a stunning spell from around the corner, while he was being held by the throat. I hadn't expected him to come and look for me. It must have been that vaunted Gryffindor bravery I suppose.

There was nowhere for me to hide. Instead I mimicked Crabbe's actions and grabbed him around his neck. I threatened him, told him that if he told anyone what I had done he would pay. And then he laughed in my face. I had not been expecting that. I let him go. I was in shock. He left, and promised me that since he owed me he wouldn't say a word. As he left I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then he turned and tossed back to me over his shoulder, "although I bet Harry would be very interested to hear about it." he grins and winks, and then finally leaves. I am left alone, frozen with shock. Finally I gather my senses. I perform enervate on Goyle, and tell him that Finnegan turned up.

I also tell him not to go back after either of them. He agrees without question. I am lucky that it was not Blaise or Pansy. They would not have been nearly so accepting.

Ever since then, Thomas has been giving me strange looks. As I walk into the Hall this morning, there he is again, giving me a surreptitious wink, and glancing slyly at Harry. And I cannot stop my gaze from following his. He ducks his head as I look in his direction.

I am half glad that he will not see me staring, half disappointed that I cannot see his brilliant emerald eyes. I catch my breath. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. His clear skin, pale, but far darker than mine from Quidditch. My skin never tans. His perpetually messy hair gleams in the pale morning light. His neck is a mass of shadow and light, and I have to suppress the urge to swoop down on him and kiss it.

Finally I manage to drag my eyes away. It is torture to walk past him without looking, and when our hands accidentally brush, I forget to breath. Somehow, I manage to reach my seat with no further incident. But when I arrive I am breathing hard, my face slightly pink, as close as it ever comes to blushing.

I look over at him once more, and I realise that I can no longer merely sit back and wait for these feelings to go away. That is never going to happen. I have made up my mind. I am going to seduce Harry Potter.

I mean, I'm Draco Malfoy. I can do anything, right? Right?

Harry's POV.

I walk into the Library, trailing behind Hermione. I look around and to my relief it is nearly empty. I did not expect much else, it is a Hogsmeade weekend after all, but there was always a chance that... That he would be there.

He never seems to go into Hogsmeade any more. In fact, I think perhaps I haven't seen him there since that day in third year when I covered him and his two goons in snow. At the time I merely seemed a like fun, but when I think back on it now - when I think back on any memory involving him now - it all takes on a new light.

I see him, once again covered in pure white snow. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are red, and all I want to do I drag him down and kiss him. Another part of me wants to kiss him in a completely different way. When I remember the look in his eyes, I realise now that I hurt him, by embarrassing him that way. And I want to take it back, take away the pain. I want to hold him, and love him, and kiss all the hurt away. What I feel for him is not merely lust, I am sure of that.

When I think of him from when we are younger; that time near the Shrieking Shack, the beginning of second year, when Hermione accused him of buying his way onto the team, the first time I ever saw him in Madame Malkins, swamped by robes to big for his thin frame, it all seems so different.

He seems vulnerable, rather than arrogant, bragging to hide his insecurities. Although I couldn't see them then, I see them now, all too clearly. When I remember him that way I want to sweep him up in my arms and hold him close, to stop him from becoming what he has today. When I first met him, he merely played a part.

Now he has become that part, and I fear that there is no going back for him. If he ever had a choice in the first place. And that is why I am here with Hermione, instead of in the village, or flying in the crisp November air. I know that he can never love me, no matter how much I wish it. I turned him down all those years ago, and that hurt him badly. I cannot expect a second offer.

Besides, he offered his hand in friendship then, not in love. There is nothing in me that he could love, I can see that. I am too tainted, too imperfect. With help, however, I might be able to make him want me. And if that is all is can have, that that is what I will take.

There is a war coming, and we are on opposite sides. I hope we never meet, for I could never find it in myself to kill him. One day soon he will leave this place, leave me only with memories. If he must leave, I will make sure that I have some good memories to hold.

We have reached the table now, and we are sitting down. Hermione just waits, and looks at me expectantly. She is nothing if not perceptive. I knew she would not believe my weak excuse for studying with her, just as I knew she would say nothing in front of Ron.

I sit down and look her straight in the eye. I pray that what I am about to tell her will not lose me her friendship. Then I open my mouth and tell her everything.

Hermione stared at him, looking shell shocked. For the first time in her life it seemed that she had nothing to say. Gently, he reached across, and tapped shut her open mouth. Hermione seemed to come to her senses. She took a deep breath as though about to say something, but nothing came out. She attempted to speak several more times, but the most she could manage was an incoherent "uh?"

Harry was trying desperately to keep a straight face all through this, but the odd sound coming from the usually articulate Hermione defeated his best efforts. He burst into laughter, unable to hold it in. Hermione continued to watch for a few moments, trying her best to look offended.

But then the corners of her lips began to curve up, and less than a minute later she joined Harry in his hysterical laughter. Staying completely silent so as not to arouse the anger of the ever vigilant Madame Pince, they shook with the spasms of their laughter until tears began to roll down their faces. It was, Harry reflected, definitely one of those times where you had to laugh, or you'd cry. As their merriment finally subsided, he decided that he was glad he had not cried - he cried far too much over Draco as it was.

There was a silence between them once again. But this time it was friendly, companionable. They had broken the ice that had frozen over them, and they simply waited, both becoming used to Hermione's new knowledge. She was the one that broke the silence.

"So," she said slowly, "you want me to help you seduce Draco Malfoy?" Harry nodded. "The same Draco Malfoy that hates you, and Ron and me, and never passes up a chance to insult or hex us?"

Harry nodded once again, slightly less surely. Was she angry with him? But she continued in the same slow pleasant tone.

"The Draco Malfoy that has hit on every girl in third year and above? The Draco Malfoy who has never shown the slightest sign that he was interested in boys? The Draco Mal-"

"Yes, Hermione, "Harry interrupted. "I get what you're saying. And yes, it's that Draco Malfoy. I mean, how many Draco's do we know?" Hermione smiled slightly, but looked thoughtful. She spoke hesitantly "I just want to make sure..."

"Yes," Harry prompted.

"Well, I know you'd never do this, I just need to make sure ...this isn't just about getting him into bed, is it? I mean, I wouldn't blame you if it was, he's very attractive-"

"NO!" Harry cut her off again. "No, Hermione," he continued more quietly. "I can't deny the fact that I'm attracted to him - like you said, he's good-looking. But it's more than that. It's his - I don't know how to describe it. His intensity I suppose his passion. The way that no matter what he does, he's entirely focused on that one thing.

And it's his vulnerability. I know that sounds strange, even I can barely see it now, but do you remember when we first met him? He was only eleven, but already he was strutting around, bragging and boasting, and making peoples lives a misery. If he had just been a bully like Crabbe or Goyle I could have dismissed it, but he went out of his way to be noticed, to live up to the pureblood stereotype.

He was just hiding underneath all that. When I look back at all the times he taunted us, I don't see him the way I did then. I just see a little parrot, spilling out whatever his Father told him was appropriate. I mean, you know Lucius Malfoy. He gave Ginny Riddle's diary, he had Dumbledore sacked, and tried to have Buckbeak executed. When I remember the first time I met him, all I see is this scared little boy, who didn't think that he was allowed to be scared. That's the part of him I see, the part of him I love. That part seems to be almost gone now, he doesn't look like he's covering up how scared he is any more, and that scares me.

But sometimes, when I watch him, I can see flashes of it. Crabbe and Goyle might be thugs but they're his friends. How far do you think they'd get without him on their side? It's not just an arrangement, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, I'm sure it isn't. I've seen him here in the library, staying up half the night just to help them with their homework.

And the first years, not just the Slytherins, some Ravenclaws too. They worship the ground he walks on. He treats them the way we always wanted to me treated when we were that age, like adults. But if they have any problems it's not Snape they run to, it's him. He looks after them. He's just as loyal in his way as we are in ours. He's got more Gryffindor in him than he knows.

And then there was that time," Harry's voice softened. "That time I caught him in the owlery. I went up to send a letter to Moony, and he was already there. He'd sent his letter, and he was just watching the owl fly away. He had the strangest look on his face. There was no arrogance left, so stupid sneer. Just this wistfulness in his eyes. I just looked at him for so long. It seemed like forever. And it was like I could see who he really was."

Harry had been looking down at his hands throughout the entire speech, and now he glanced upward. Hermione was once again staring at him open mouthed. This time, rather than laughing, he sighed and ducked his head.

"I didn't mean to go for so long," he continued. "I just wanted to show you why - why I have to do this. I love him so much. I know that he doesn't feel the same way, I know that he can't. But he'll be leaving soon, and I just can't face it. The mere idea of living without him terrifies me. And the thought that one day I might have to kill him..." his voice petered out. "I just want something to hold onto," he said finally. "Something, anything to carry me through until I can learn to let go.

Hermione continued to stare at the boy in front of her. Harry was like a brother to her, and she hated to see him in pain. The thought that he could be hurting this much without her even noticing seemed inconceivable.

But now she knew she would do everything in her power to help him. Not knowing quite what to say, she cleared her throat nervously.

"You really do love him, don't you?" at the sound of Hermione's soft words, Harry lifted his head from the table.

"Yes," he whispered. "I do."

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright, I'll help you." Harry opened his mouth, a delighted expression on his face, but Hermione stopped him. "I can't say I'm happy with what you're doing," she continued. Harry's face fell. "I think you're giving him too much of a chance to hurt you, I think you're letting him in too close. But if I'm right, I'm not sure that he can hurt you much more than he is now." slowly, Harry nodded. "I'm still not sure that this just won't make things worse. But if you really think you need this Harry, I'll help.


	4. Dreams

Disclaimer: as much as i would like to be the highly exulted one, J.K.Rowling, may she live forever, i'm not. these characters belong to her, and not to me, i'm just borrowing them fo a little while. but i'll make sure they get home safely. honest.

OK, if you've been following this story from the begining, i'm sorry, but you need to go back and read chapter 2 again. i just got my laptop back, and the original version that i wrote for that chapter was a lot better, so i switched them, but if you haven't read the previous chapter, then things late ron in the story won't make a lot of sense. so please read that before this. thanks.

Deciding what to do was remarkably easy. He had never expected that it would be. He thought that should he ever decide to reveal his feelings; it would take hours of agonised decision-making.

But all it had taken was the sight of messy black hair, the absence of emerald eyes, and the accidental brush of skin against skin. That was all it had taken to break his resolve, to change his decision never to allow Potter to know about how he felt.

For one thing, he did not think he could bear the grin that would spread over the Weasels face when he realised that he had something like this over his most hated enemy. He could not bear the horror and realisation he would see in Grangers face, and the inevitable hardening of her features, the decision to keep Draco as far away from Potter as possible. But most of all he would not be able to bear the pity in Harry's eyes. Pity, not horror, or glee, but pity, because that was the kind of person who Harry was.

Damn. He had called Potter Harry again. He would have to curb that if he was to carry his plan through. Despite his decision to seduce Potter, he had no intention of revealing his actual feelings to him. He was in love, not completely stupid.

But there was his problem. It had been easy to decide to seduce Harry - Potter, he had simply known that he could not bear being apart from him any longer. But seducing him was another matter. Despite the many rumours flying around Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy was still a virgin.

He had created many of the rumours himself. It was the only way he could think of to hide from his father. While homosexuality was accepted in the within the wizarding world, he was the only Heir to the Malfoy bloodline. Draco shuddered to think of what would happen if his father found out he had no intention of marrying a witch.

It might actually have worse consequences than his decision not to become a Death Eater. Draco had not informed his father of this decision yet, but he was certainly not looking forward to the conversation. He had been nervous about the decision for a long time, but he had never considered defying his father - until that dream.

He had been running, running through the mist. He had been searching desperately for something, something he could not find. He opened his mouth to call for it - and then stopped when he realised he did not know its name. And then something called his own name through the mist.

"Draco." Draco, not Malfoy. No one but his father called him Draco. And this was not his Father.

"Draco." the voice came again. And this time Draco knew who it was, knew who had called his name, knew that he had found what he was looking for.

"Harry," he called back, the name so dear to him, so loved. "Harry."

And through the mist a figure appeared. Draco ran forward, and he was in his beloveds arms. Desperately he pressed kisses all over the face in front on him. Finally he captured his lips, and it had felt so tender, so wonderful, that tears streamed down his face.

"Harry" he whispered again.

"Shh." Harry said. "Listen, Draco, there's not much time."

"Time? Time for what?" Draco had answered, bewildered.

"I'm sorry Draco, but I have to ask you do this. You have to make the choice."

"Choice?" Draco repeated stupidly.

The scene around them twisted and changed, and they were on a battle field. All around figures in black robes shot bolts of light at each other. Had any Muggles been present, they might have laughed at the pretty light show they created, but their laughter would soon have been frozen in the mouth when the saw the deadly effect of the spells.

Brilliant green was the predominant colour; wizards lay on the ground in piles, no sign of a wound but dead all the same, all with the same look of frozen shock on their faces. Still more lay on the ground, blood weeping sluggishly from their wounds. They would die soon, their cries pulled away from the macabre music of the battlefield, and their last moment would be full of agony.

He looked down at himself, and he too was wearing a black robe. In his hand was a wand. Harry stood in front of him. He was wearing a robe but he had no wand. Slowly, Harry reached up, and undid the buttons of his robe, leaving his chest bare. You have to choose he said again but he didn't speak the words aloud. They echoed through Draco's head.

Hesitantly, without really being aware of what he was doing Draco raised the wand and pointed it at Harry's bare chest. And the Harry flickered. He was still himself, but in him, Draco could see Granger superimposed upon his face. Then the Weasel. Then the other Weasley's, one following the other, even the little spitfire, the one who'd loved Harry the way he did now. To think that he would have anything in common with a Weasley, other than contempt.

And dozens of likenesses flickered over Harry's form, so fast Draco could barely follow it. Faces he knew well, faces he barely remembered, and people he'd never met, but had seen a photo of. And there was only one thing they had in common. None of them would ever consider joining Voldemort.

And then, in the blink of an eye the flickering stopped and it was just Harry again. But when he spoke, it was with a thousand voices. "You have to choose." and then Draco heard his own voice say "Avada Kedavra." and although he had not meant to say it, his voice was firm, and as cold as ice. And a jet of light, as green as Harry's eyes shot out, and caught him in the chest. And down Harry fell, down so slowly Draco wondered if he would ever truly touch the ground. And when he spoke one last time he spoke in his own beloved voice, "you have to choose."

Draco had woken up, sweating and pale. He had promptly staggered to the bathroom and thrown up. He had decided then that he could not be a Death Eater. He had never wanted to be a slave to Voldemort, and he knew now that he couldn't kill. He had already known that if he ever faced Harry, he would not be able to do what he was supposed to.

But now he felt that it would be all very well to say that should he see Harry, he would not kill him but in his heart he knew that every death, every crime or act of torture he committed on a person merely because of their blood would help to kill Harry as surely as if he stood in front of him and said the Killing Curse as he had in his dream.

For him he would do the unthinkable. He would do what few others than he himself had done. He would defy my father, and the Dark Lord.

He only hoped that he wouldn't survive. He didn't have the strength to survive anymore.

Not without him.

But right now, he had far more serious problems on his mind. Like how to seduce Harry. Obviously asking for help from anyone in Slytherins was out of the question. In fact, he could think of only one person he could ask. Now he just had to swallow enough pride to do it.

"Thomas!" it was the end of Potions. Draco had been struggling with his decision all week and he had finally decided to ask for help. He had been watching Harry for weeks and he knew that there was no way that he would get close enough to Harry to do what he wanted on his own. So he had swallowed his pride, and approached Thomas at the end of class.

Thomas was looking warily at him, surprised at being called to by any of the Slytherins. Finnegan was glaring at Draco menacingly, obviously expecting a patented Malfoy remark on Thomas's muggle heritage. But none was forth coming. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Finnegan." Draco smirked. "I just want to talk to Thomas here. Alone," he added pointedly when Finnegan failed to move.

The boy looked as though he'd far rather tear Draco limb from limb than allow him to talk to Thomas, but when Thomas assured him that everything was alright he left, glancing back over his shoulder several times.

"Alright Malfoy. What do you want now," Thomas asked.

"I simply felt that the time was right for you to repay that little favour you owe me," Draco sneered, every inch the pure blood wizard. Thomas was not impressed.

"Well, what is it? What do you want?" he asked, clearly exasperated. This was it. Draco drew a deep breath. The time had come for him to sacrifice his pride forever. But it would be worth it, he decided, when he held Harry in his arms. He opened his mouth, and spoke quickly, desperate to get the awkward conversation over with.

"Indutelpmesdcepttr."

Thomas blinked.

"What?"

Perhaps a little too fast. He took another deep breath and tried again.

"I need you to help me seduce Potter." Thomas merely gawped.

"Come again?" This was going to be harder than he had thought.

"I said, I need you to help me seduce Potter." if he had to say it again, he thought he might just shrivel up and die, rather than face the embarrassment of a Malfoy asking for help.

"Oh" Thomas blinked again. With his mouth still hanging open, he greatly resembled a codfish. "That's what I thought you said." and then suddenly he broke out into huge peals of laughter.

Draco stared at him, bewildered. He had no idea what to do. In the end he settled a expression of contempt upon his face to hide his confusion, and waited for Thomas to stop laughing. By the time he was done, he had tears streaming down his face.

"Just what," Draco asked icily, "do you find so amusing about my request?" still gasping, Thomas managed to wheeze out,

"You! You, Draco Malfoy, The Slytherin Prince, Heir to the Malfoy's, resident Don Juan asking me for help to seduce Potter! You are asking me, a Mudblood for help to seduce him. Gryffindors Golden Boy, poster child for all that's good and pure. I mean come on! Have you ever heard anything more ridiculously clichéd."

Draco continued to stare at the boy before him in amazement. he didn't anyone had ever laughed at him before in his life - well except for the bouncing ferret incident, but still... But then, in spite of himself, Draco felt the corners of his mouth twitch. This was accompanied by a strange urge to laugh. Swiftly pushing the urge away, he smoothed down the corners of his mouth with his hand.

"That is exactly what I'm asking you Thomas, and remember, you owe me. So start thinking." Even to Draco's ears, the words sounded weak. Thomas went into another bout of laughter, but when he straightened up again, his eyes were hard.

"Nothing doing Malfoy."

"What!" after having plucked up the courage to ask for help, Draco had never expected Thomas not to help him.

"I'm not going to help you Malfoy. I may owe you, but Harry's not my friend. I'm not going to help you get him in a position where you can hurt him. I know you're reputation Malfoy. If Harry starts something, it will be for good. You won't do that for him. You may want him but you don't love him, and that's what Harry deserves, what Harry needs." Thomas walked away down the corridor.

"But I do." The words tore desperately from his lips. He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. He hadn't meant to say that. He just hadn't been able to let his only chance at having Harry, even for a little while, simply slip away.

"What?"

"I do," Draco said quietly. He had resigned himself to this now, to the pity, or horror or mockery that would follow. "I do love him. I didn't - I didn't want anyone to know, you're the only one that does, but I need him Thomas. I know that he can never l-love someone like me, but I thought, I thought that maybe I could have just a little piece of him, something to remember him by."

Dean stared at Malfoy. He had never seen him look so - so - vulnerable. It didn't seem possible that this was the same boy who had tormented him for years. Dean's heart softened slightly.

"You could still hurt him," Dean accused. "You support You-Know-Who. Just by being with him you would be a danger to him."

"I don't support him. No one else knows, but I won't be going home again. I'm staying here for Christmas and Easter - my fathers decision not mine. But I'm glad. I don't want to go back to that house ever again. I haven't spoken to Dumbledore yet, but I will. I won't join the Death Eaters. I love him far too much to even think about killing him." Dean continued to stare.

"I've always known," Dean said quietly, "that you liked him. I never said anything, you did save me, I figured I owed you that much. And the thing is, I know that he likes you too." Draco's head shot up at this, his eyes questioning, but Dean continued talking.

"But I never said anything to either of you, because I just can't trust you with him. Whether you join them or not, your father has. It's just too easy for him to get to him through you."

"You think I don't know that? You think I don't know the danger I could put him in? That's why I can't tell him how I really feel. This won't be a long term relationship. He'll have some fun and I'll get what I need."

Dean opened his mouth to meet but Draco forestalled him. "I know that sounds selfish, but try and look at this from my point of view. I love him, I need him, and I can't spend the rest of the year just knowing that he's going to leave. He can't love someone like me, I know that. This way we both get what we need, I get him, and he gets chance to - to relax, to let loose for once. And I'll be the only hurting at the end."

"You won't." Dean spoke quietly. "He may not love you, but if you walk away you'll hurt him badly." Draco laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh, I won't be the one to walk away. He will."

"Promise me you won't hurt him." Draco's silver eyes stared into the earnest brown ones before him.

"I promise." Dean smiled.

"Alright. I'll help you.


	5. The Day after Christmas

Draco paced, his feet creating an invisible path through the room. He hated this habit. It reminded him far too much of his father. When he was younger, his father would call him into his study at least once a week. Whether it was to chastise him for some misdemeanour, or to give him yet another lesson on the proper ways of a Malfoy, the session would invariably start with Draco, standing as stiff as a poker, with his arms clamped to his sides, watching his father pace the room in front of him. These lessons had started some time between the age of four and five - Draco couldn't remember very clearly. What he did remember was the terrified thrill he used to receive from them. He knew that other people were afraid of his father, but he had never had a reason to be. He followed every order his father gave him precisely, proud to please him, and to receive his tokens of affection in return. But Draco also remembered the first meeting alone with his father after Christmas when he was eight years old. Children are resilient and Draco had done a remarkably good job of forgetting the events of Christmas Eve - until his father summoned him. The moment he had heard the message the blood had drained from his face, changing his complexion from pale to ghostly, and he had felt like throwing up. His nurse was far to concerned with making him look presentable for his father to notice the distress of her small charge. Had he even thought of it, Draco wouldn't have blamed her. At the age of eight, she was his sixth nurse - no one knew what had become of the others. She had wiped his face and hands, tugged on his best robes and bundled him into the study in a state of high distress. Barely noticing the worried look on his face, she closed the door quietly, and left him to his fate.

Lucius was standing in front of him, the black marble fireplace at his back. Despite the aid of heating spells, the fire was lit; it was a magical fire; the light of the cold blue flames licked over his father's blonde hair and white robes, making him look very much the part of the ice prince he had heard his father, and later, himself, called. He was pacing. After what seemed like an eternity for Draco, but was in actuality little more that 30 seconds, he stopped and turned to face his trembling son.

"My dear Draco," he began, the emotionless calibre of his voice lending the lie to his affectionate words. "Some of my sources have led me to believe that you witnessed something of a - scene - here the other night."

Draco held his breath, waiting to be punished. His mind flashed with images of his mother lying on the floor, blood seeping from her face. He was scared. He couldn't survive that kind of punishment. Shame came with the fear - he was a Malfoy, a man, he wasn't supposed to feel fear - but he could not block his emotions out. He struggled instead to keep the emotions form his face, knowing that to show the fear would surely warrant a more severe reprimand from his father.

So he could barely hide his surprise when the line of his father's mouth became a cold deadly smile.

"although perhaps I would not have decided to start this part of your education quite so soon, what I must surmise you saw will do as an impressive example as to how you should treat women. Women, Draco, were put on this earth to serve man. They cater to us, provide us with out heirs, and then retire, modestly and gracefully to the background of our lives, left with one simple vocation. To provide us with pleasure. Your mother denied me that pleasure Draco and she had to be punished. Do you understand?"

Draco nodded, his eyes wide, but he barely heard his father's next words. All he could see was his mother dripping blood onto the now spotless carpet before his eyes. In that moment, a small part of his soul crumbled, and fell away.

But despite the fact that he loathed the habit, when he was nervous, he still paced. It was the only thing that could calm him at all, if he attempted to sit still for more than a minute, his emotional state quickly became volatile, ready to explode at any minute. He had just reached the end of one line and was beginning a new one, a particularly vicious twist of his shoulders causing his cloak to billow impressively behind him, when the door creaked open.

Draco whirled around again, his expression one of pure irritation. He allowed the cloak to settle impressively onto his shoulders again before speaking.

"Where have you been," he hissed. "I've been waiting for you for almost an hour." An angry Malfoy is something of a sight to behold, but to Draco's chagrin Thomas did not appear at all cowed.

"Quidditch," Thomas shrugged. Draco mentally slapped himself - he knew that Harry practiced tonight, he had been bemoaning the lost opportunity of watching him - but he kept his face impassive. "And I got a little lost," the boy continued. "What was with the cryptic Malfoy? You made me feel like I was in a bad detective movie. '9:00 PM, third floor corridor, fifth door. Come alone'" he quoted Malfoy's words at him.

"Well what was I supposed to say?" Draco asked defensively. "Come meet me in the old Charms classroom on the third floor, to discuss how to seduce you my arch nemesis?"

"First of all," Dean spoke calmly, "you're not. His arch nemesis. That's You-Know-Who. And second, didn't you think that they might have asked questions when you grabbed me for our little téte a téte after Potions the other day? I told them that I had been assigned to help you with your Muggle Studies project."

Draco deflated slightly, and a warm rose colour tinged his cheeks. "Oh. Well," he continued, trying to save face, "I always wondered why Father made me take that class. At least it's come in useful for something."

"I think he might have had some idea about 'knowing your enemy.'" Dean was beginning to sound exasperated. "Honestly Malfoy, you're in Slytherin. Surely you should have been able to figure that out." he was right. Damn. Draco drew himself up to his full height, and tried to conjure up the quiet dignity his voice usually carried." this is not what we came here to discuss, Thomas." the tone fell a little flat, but all in all he was pleased with the results.

Unfortunately, Thomas didn't appear impressed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever Malfoy," he said, with a grin. "So, why, we're here. Why is that again?" he smirked at Draco, appearing to ponder the question.

Draco gritted his teeth. "You know perfectly well why we're here," he managed to grind out.

"I do?" Thomas faked a thoughtful expression. "Well, if it's not for Muggle studies, then why - oh yes," he interrupted himself. "I seem to remember you asking me for help - because you're in love with Harry,"

"Keep your voice down." Draco looked around, nervously.

"Why, Malfoy? We're the only ones here, remember? Gees, relax already." Thomas sounded like himself again. Draco winced inwardly at the slang, but managed to keep his face a blank page - smooth and expressionless.

"So, Thomas continued, "have you thought of - kidnapping him and allowing him to change you mind on the whole 'Death Eater' situation?" Thomas's eyes danced with mischief.

Draco _looked _at him.

"No? How about - turning into a magical creature and claiming that he's your mate?" his voice shook with barely suppressed laughter.

Draco glared.

"Really, I thought that would be a winner," Thomas continued blithely. He genuinely wanted to help Malfoy, but he still couldn't resist getting a few digs in - payment for all the abuse he'd taken from him in the past.

"Well, this was one of my less good ideas, how about asking Dumbledore to let the two of you shack up on a flimsy excuse of house unity?"

"Actually, that's not such a bad ide- oh honestly Thomas," Draco bit out as Dean finally succumbed to the laughter that had been threatening to spill out of him for the past few minutes.

"Look, you owe me remember, Thomas. Don't you have any real ideas?" Draco was starting to get desperate. Making the decision had been easier than he expected, but asking for help - far harder. The execution seemed to be harder still.

When Thomas continued to laugh, Draco began to get - some what irritated.

"Look," he tried, "can you just shut the hell up for one minute!" Thomas managed to stifle his laughter, but couldn't seem to wipe the grin off of his face.

"Look," Draco said again. "I understand that this must seem really strange to you. And I suppose I could understand how you should find it funny. But I don't. I can't. In six or seven months I'm going to leave here - and I've got no idea where I'll go. I'm going to be spending my life dodging Death Eater attacks, and probably some from your side too. I can't imagine that they'll take to the idea of a reformed Malfoy to well."

Thomas's smile had faded, and he was staring at Draco.

"What I'm trying to say is -you'll probably be ok. You may die, I'm not denying there's a chance, but you're on the winning side. At the end of this, you'll probably still be here, able to live your life, and have hundreds of fat grandchildren. But I don't get that. Even assuming that I survive what's coming - which doesn't seem likely, I don't get a happily ever after. so I'm asking you, no I'm begging you, and I can assure you that this is not something that Malfoy's do easily," Draco's eyes had cleared to an almost ethereal silvery grey, and he turned the full force of them onto Thomas, a beseeching look filling each starry orb. "I'm begging you, to just help me this time, to give me this happily for a while, with him. I need him Thomas. I'm begging you, please, help me find some peace."

All the laughter was now gone from the other boy's face.

"I'm not sure exactly how much I can help you," he said, "but I'll try." Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

"Do you have any _real_ ideas then?" he asked but the bite was taken out of his words by the smile that accompanied them.

"Actually, yes," Thomas answered him. What you have to realise is, is that this isn't going to be as hard as you think. Harry already likes you."

Draco gaped at him.

"Have you gone completely mad?" he asked in an almost awed voice. "Harry Potter likes me?"

"There's no need to sound so surprised." the grin was back on Thomas's face and it was making Draco nervous. He didn't like feeling out of control. "After all," the boy continued, "you've never exactly been one to be modest. You've got a good body - you may be an evil jerk, but you're hot."

Draco just stared at him. "Well, if he already likes me, why hasn't he done something?" he questioned, then answered him, "right, he's Harry Potter and I'm Draco Malfoy. Not a match made in Elysian."

"Elysian?"

"Oh for heavens sakes Thomas. Even Muggles know about the ancient Greeks! Do you have any cultural upbringing? Elysian, the Elysian fields, a paradise of flowers and people wearing skimpy togas!"

"Oh."

Draco's eyes narrowed.

"Are you sure Harry likes me? This isn't some stupid Gryffindor joke to wind me up? You'd think there'd be something over the rumour mill by now, your man Finnegan isn't known for keeping his mouth shut."

"Yes, but Seamus, or Ron or Neville for that matter, don't stay up till the wee hours every night drawing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, _they _don't have to hear Harry wake up every night, sometimes twice actually, moaning."

Draco felt slightly breathless. "Moaning?"

"Yes, moaning. Your name."

"Oh Hecate!" Draco's breathing was now more than slightly laboured. The images the other boy's words conjured up - Harry, deliciously rumpled, pleasuring himself while Draco watched - writhing underneath him in pleasure - shouting out Draco's name as he came with Draco's cock buried deep in his arse.

"Malfoy! Malfoy, are you alright?"

Thomas's words slowly filtered through into Draco's brain. He looked up and encountered deep black eyes, gleaming mischievously. His face blushed a light pink, and not for the first time he was extremely grateful for the nature of wizards robes.

"I'm fine," he answered roughly. "But this isn't what I really need to know. Knowing that he likes me will make my job easier, but it doesn't tell me how to get to him."

"You really don't need to do much at all. You just need to be - well - pleasant. Try and be nice to him."

Draco snorted. "As if that would work. He'd probably hex me into next week. Even if that weren't true, Granger's got a mean right hook. No way am I going to give her a reason to get snippy. And how am I supposed to explain that to the other Slytherins? This is an affair, remember, it can't last. And until I'm ready for it to happen, my father can't know that I'm not on his side any more. I need to compensate for all of this." Draco's voice began to take on a slightly panicked tone. "How am I supposed to manage all of this?" Dean closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. He hadn't expected this to be so difficult. He's expected to come to meet Malfoy, clue him in on how Harry really felt about him - with a few pieces of advice - and let the two of them get on with it.

"Alright, just shut up for a minute, and let me think. Draco sat down and tried to remain quiet. Within two minutes he was valiantly attempting to _not _tap his finger or his wand, _not _jiggle his leg or his arm, and most especially, _not_ to get up and pace. Thomas's voice cut through his concentration.

"Go on, just do it. Watching you trying not to pace is making it harder than you pacing would."

somewhat relieved, although slightly disturbed that the Muggle born boy could read him so easily, he got up and began to pace, occasionally shooting anxious glance at the boy who sat in front of him, his face screwed up in concentration.

More than anything, Draco felt grateful to have someone else to rely on. Despite his reputation as both a Slytherin, and a blonde (Draco shuddered just think about it, he _hated_ blonde jokes,) he was a clever person. There were few people in his year that could top him at Potions, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, even Muggle studies. Only Granger, and upon occasion, in a few of his lesser subjects, such as transfiguration, some of the other Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, could best him. The only thing he really wasn't good at was Charms. He shivered when he remembered his Father's reaction to his barely scraped A in his Charms OWL. It wasn't something he wanted to remember. All in all, Draco Malfoy was clever. The problem Thomas was puzzling over was something Draco could probably have worked out for himself. But it was such a relief not to have to for once. He had carried this secret with him for over two months, but it already felt like an eternity. Just to be able to rely on someone else, have someone else do the thinking - Draco couldn't remember the last time anything had made him fell so relaxed.

Pivoting sharply he glanced over at Thomas again, just in time to see his eyes snap open.

"Ok," he whispered, almost to himself. "I've got it."

Dean took a deep breath, and turned to face Malfoy, who was looking at him expectantly.

"Ok," he said again. "This is what we're going to do." he began to outline his plan. By the time he was finished, Draco was grinning broadly.

"I'll owl you when I'm ready, alright," Dean said as he left. "You might as well give the Slytherins the same excuse I gave my friends, it's easy to remember. Oh, and Malfoy?"

Draco looked up expectantly.

"Since it looks like I'm going to be helping you out for a while - we'll be spending a lot of time in one another's company - why don't you call me Dean."

Hesitantly, Draco smiled. "I'd like that...Dean. After a slight pause he continued, "and you - you should call me Draco." although the other boy didn't know it, Draco was taking a big risk by allowing the boy the use of his name. Perhaps four people in Slytherin, along with Professor Snape, and his Mother called him by it. His father called him 'son,' or 'boy,' and everyone else used his much feared surname. Letting Dean Call him Draco was a sign of trust and respect, something Draco never thought he'd feel for any Gryffindor, let alone a Muggleborn. Although Dean obviously didn't realise exactly what this meant, the way he answered seemed to indicate that he understood at some level the amount of trust Draco was placing in him.

"Thank you," he said softly, almost reverently. "I will. Goodnight Draco."

"Goodnight Dean."

When the door swung shut. Draco was still smiling. He found that he could not stop. Not only had the path to having Harry begun, but he seemed to have obtained something entirely unexpected. A friend.


	6. Pain

Harry was sitting in the common room, pretending to read the latest edition of '_For Boy's who Love Broomstick's (wooden or otherwise)_' The twins had bought him two years subscription for his last birthday. Unfortunately, he was having trouble concentrating on finding out who had broken the world record for loop the loops in under a minute. The only thing on his mind was Draco. Even the large picture of a scantily clad Adonis, winking and waving at him from the opposite page, failed to catch his interest. Every time he tried to allow himself to become lost in the beauty of Quidditch toned muscles, the tanned skin would lighten to a pale cream, the buff form would slender, and the sun kissed hair would become as pale as starlight. No matter what he did, Harry could not seem to shift Draco Malfoy from his mind. He tried flipping through the different articles, he tried reciting potion ingredients. He attempted to stare longingly at every drop dead gorgeous model in the magazine, but it wasn't until he saw someone with blonde hair and pale eyes that he felt even remotely interested. He was so intent on trying to not think, that he didn't notice Hermione coming towards him, a pile of books in her hands. He did notice, however, when she dumped the books on a table, right next to his ear. Startled, he gave a strangled yelp, and fell off the sofa he'd been lying on.

Hermione peeked over the edge of the table only to be confronted by a red faced, glaring Harry. Pulling back, she tried to restrain her laughter, but when Harry's messy black hair poked aver the side of the table, quickly followed by his still red face she couldn't stop herself. Harry continued to glare as she attempted to get herself under control.

By the time she had managed to control her giggles, Harry had hauled himself up, and was staring at the books she had dropped onto the table.

"Hermione," he asked, holding up a huge tome entitled '_Pureblood History: Portents and Prophecies,' _what is all this.

Hermione blushed.

"The thing is," she began, and then looked around helplessly, as though at loss for what to say.

"The thing is?" Harry prompted her.

"The thing is - oh it's just, I want to help you, Harry, I really do, but this isn't really something I know much about. If you had asked me for the correct boiling technique in the third stage of an Obstentio potion, or where to find out about Hippogryph mating dances, I wouldn't hesitate. But what your asking me to help you with - it's not something I can exactly _learn_." by this point Hermione's face sported a blush which rivalled Ron's and she looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I thought maybe, considering whom you two are, there might be a prophecy about you somewhere. Pureblood families always have a few knocking about and-"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her. "Look, I appreciate this, but like you said, you can't teach me anything about this. And, if there is a prophecy, I'm not sure I want to know." Harry looked down at his hands, which were nervously clenching the material of his robe. He went on in a low voice, "I _love _him 'Mione, he means everything to me. But even if something happens between us, I won't mean anything to him. I don't really want to find out for certain that one day one of us will have to k-kill the other. For one thing," Harry choked slightly, and when he looked up, his eyes were glistening with tears. "For one thing, I know I could never do it. I don't really want to know that I'm going to lose the war over him - I just c-can't 'Mione please."

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had seen Harry like this since the death of Sirius. He looked so defeated, so - broken. Without a second thought, she gathered him into her arms.

Harry clutched at her, needing the security of knowing that she, at least, was there for him. He took a few shuddering breathes, and then forced down the sobs that wanted to spill from his throat. Leaning back, he quickly wiped his eyes on the edge of his sleeves, and gave her a watery grin.

"So," he said, and his voice only had the slightest quaver. "D'you has any real ideas to help me out." Hermione was about to retort, when she suddenly stopped, and looked at him.

"Harry," she said slowly, "this _is _about getting him into bed, isn't it?" Blushing a bright red, Harry nodded.

"Just, stand up for me a minute," she went on, in the same uncertain tone of voice. Feeling slightly nervous, Harry stood. After looking at him for a little while longer, she nodded to herself, and walked over to the entrance to the girls' dormitories.

"Stay right where you are, she instructed Harry as she walked up the stairs. Feeling a little apprehensive, Harry stood in the middle of the common room, trying not to feel self conscious. When Hermione returned she was accompanied by Lavender and Parvati. The three girls were whispering to each other, and when they reached Harry they separated and began to circle him, watching him intently. Unable to keep himself from thinking a vultures circling in on their prey, Harry blushed even more brightly under their scrutiny.

"What?" he said, unable to bear the girls silence any longer.

"Oh be quiet Harry, we're trying to think," Hermione instructed him irritably. She turned to the other two girls.

"What d'you think?" she asked them, nodding towards Harry.

"Oh definitely," Lavender giggled, and Parvati chimed in behind her, 'He's got bucket loads of potential, but he really does need our help, doesn't he?" Harry looked toward Hermione, expecting to see her customary roll of the eyes at this kind of behaviour, but to his astonishment, she also seemed to be trying to keep herself from giggling.

"What!" Harry snapped. "Are you planning on turning me into a side show freak?" this just seemed to make the girls laugh harder.

"Oh no Harry," Hermione panted, when she finally got her breath back. "Much worse than that."We're giving you a makeover!" the three girls collapsed on the sofa in another fit of giggles. Harry could only stare at them in horror.

I'm down in Hogsmeade. It's not one of the common weekends, but all my year is at least 17 now. 7th years are allowed down to the village at any time, provided that they're back before it gets too late. I normally avoid the common weekends now; I dislike being surrounded by people. And of course there is always the chance that he might be there.

As much as I crave the sight of him, I try to deny my addiction when possible. I must endure the pain of him in classes, in meals, at every chance encounter. Despite the fact that I treasure these times in a way that I find slightly pathetic, I dare not allow myself me. The sight of him is like an over large, quickly swallowed mouthful of ice cream. Clod sweet and refreshing in my mouth, but coldly painful as it slides down my throat. Nor is it merely a second of pain, but the sweetness lingers in my mouth and the cold in my chest for far longer than I would like after his disappearance. And this is nothing compared to our chance touches. These are not cold. They burn, with such intensity that I can still feel the imprint of his skin against mine hours later.

So no matter how much I might want it, I deny myself the pleasure of his presence in order to spare myself the pain. I rarely leave the castle any more, but today I was restless. The walls of the place that at times feels like my only freedom closed in on me today, oppressing my thoughts.

Again and again I ran over Thomas – _Dean's _suggestion in my mind. It's a sound plan, simple yet effective. It will stop me from being persecuted by my classmates and will keep my father off my back. It even has the advantage of giving Harry a wonderful reason to leave me when the time comes.

Although actually getting us to a stage where he will need to do this will perhaps be more difficult than I thought. Although I will never admit this to anyone, this is the part of my plan which scares me the most. The rest is a simple piece of fakery, little more than what I already do on a day to day basis when it comes to my thoughts for him.

But actually being nice to the boy. That wasn't something I ever really thought about. In a way I'm relieved, as it means dropping even the meagre pretence I've been keeping up of trying to appear hostile towards Harry. But the fact is I know very little about being nice.

I know how to be charming of course, in the right situations, for the right people. But I find it hard to believe that Harry will appreciate the simpering of yet another sycophantic fan.

So I am at a loss. This is not a situation I enjoy. Everything in my life has been carefully planned out, thought through. Everything has its own routine. The first time chaos entered my life was that night after Christmas…….. But I refuse to allow myself to be vulnerable in that way. I may not have been able to control my father, but even that has its own routine now.

The shouts begin – I may hear them from my room, echoing through the empty corridors of the mausoleum that I am forced upon occasion to call my home. Or perhaps instead I will be rounding a corner, and the noise will suddenly assault my ears, and I will have to run and hide. And the whole while I'm trembling with fear – and with shame

I wait in my room, until I think enough time has passed, or the noise has stopped, and then I creep down the stairs to the newly silent room, and cautiously I peek around the door, just in case he's still there. He never is – he has no need to be once he's obtained whatever it is he wants, but still I have to check. Then I go in, and carefully lift the fragile body of my mother into my arms.

When I was younger all I could do was support her weight, now, I cradle her to me, trying to protect her. I wish I could – but the fear keeps me a way. I'm a coward, whimpering, snivelling, and hiding in my room until I'm sure the dangers passed. It might be easier if she hated me, but instead she thanks me for taking care of her.

At times I can barely look at her for shame. I know why she doesn't leave him. It's not for propriety's sake, as many might think. She stopped caring about propriety along time ago. She stays for fear of what he will do to me.

And despite the fact that I am no longer a little baby, but nearly a man, I cannot do what she has done for me. The only person I know as strong as she is is Harry.

So I do what I can for her. I carry her to my bathroom, and gently clean the blood from her face, and fill the bath with water. There are spells for this, but to use them would be a break in my familiar routine, and I prefer to keep things the way they are.

Carefully I undress her, noting when she winces to make sure that I am careful. Then I lower her gently into the bath so that she can wash the blood and semen from her body. No matter what other injuries she has, there are always bruises on her thighs, and there is always blood from between her legs. Draco has become very adept at healing spells and glamour's. When she is finished he performs a diagnostic spell on her to make sure she is not in danger of dying. She never is. Lucius is not stupid.

Then I heal what I can, and cover up what I can't, and when I am done, she is every bit as beautiful as she always was. When I was younger I loved to look at my pretty mother. She was my moon. I didn't like the sun. It was too harsh, too bright. She was the moon and I was her star child.

Then I lay her gently in my bed, and stand watch by the door. What I would do if my father came in I don't know. He has never tried.

By morning she is always gone. Back to his bed. Because of me, she has no choice. So. Even the most horrific part of my life has its own ritual. But I have nothing prepared for this.

For taunting him, spiting him, I have a whole repertoire. In the art of staring I have of late become even more proficient. But I have no idea how to be nice, to be friendly. I never had a friend. There was no one my father did not consider beneath me. The funny thing is that, even with his mother, had the circumstances been different, Harry might have been the only one deemed worthy. Potter, after all, is an ancient name.

I continue to wander as I think, absently taking in the familiar sights of the picture perfect village around me. I never told anyone this, but I had seen Hogsmeade once before I attended Hogwarts. My Mother took me. She was just about able to cite it as trying to show me what the Muggles had reduced us to – this was the only place left where wizards didn't have to hide.

Father grudgingly agreed to let me go, but not a word about Muggles was said after we'd left the manor. Instead my mother showed me the village. She bought me all the tricks I wanted from Zonko's, and let me stay to pet the owls at the post office for far longer than most sane people could have managed. She let me taste the Butterbeer from Three Broomsticks, and we laughed together when it fizzed up my nose. Neither of us could stop giggling as we levitated all over the shop in Honeydukes, filling our bags with more Fizzing Whizzbees to take home. After it got dark she took me up to the Shrieking Shack, and told me ghost stories that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine.

Then we lay in the grass, and looked together at the stars. Mother took out her wand, and whispered something I didn't hear, but a moment later my constellation was brightly lit, with shimmering silver lines running between the stars. A silver dragon in the sky. And together we traced the dragon with our fingers, and then she held me close, and whispered to me how I was _her _dragon, her star child.

The Shouting started early when we got home that night. I wanted desperately to run down, to protect my mother from this monster than ruled our lives. But something held me back, and instead I stayed in my room, burning with shame, tracing the dragon in the sky through my window.

Now though, this place has lost the wonder it showed a little boy, and is instead merely a backdrop for my troubled thoughts. I shake my head, attempting in the same action to shake off the melancholy that has been haunting me lately. It has been a long time since I have allowed the thoughts of my home life to intrude upon my life here.

Looking around, I realise that I am outside Gladrags, so I decide that perhaps a bit of retail therapy will help. Despite the fact that I hate to pander to either the blonde or gay stereotypes, I have to admit that I love shopping. Another thing that I hide from my father. I turn toward the shop and open the door –

Only to be confronted by Potter surrounded by a group of girls. There's something subtly different about him, but I don't take the time to find out what it is. All thoughts of what Thomas told me fly out of my head, and all that's left is a pulsing green jealousy. I strike back the only way I know how.

'Decided to get some new clothes, Potter? Anything would be better than those old rags I suppose – but really, dress up scum in good clothes – and you get your clothes dirty. You may not be a Mudblood, Potter, but your precious mother was one. Makes your blood as dirty as hers in my opinion. Dress yourself up as fine as you like, Scarhead, there's no one that can't see what's really standing in front of them."

I'm panting slightly by the end of this speech. It's been a long time since I let go like this and damn but it feels good. I've always reigned myself in – Father would have been happy with nothing less – and these taunting sessions between me and Potter were such a release. He may never realise it, but he was the one that saved my sanity. I'm sure he'd be so disappointed.

But one look at his face, and I'm reminded why I decided to tether myself in again. Expecting some kind of comeback, but all I get is a slight crumpling of his face, and hurt shining at me from those amazing green eyes.

With all the dignity I can muster, I murmur a greeting to the Patil twins (very old family – only British for four generations, but the Malfoy's have only been here a century or two, and it wouldn't do to be impolite.) and with a by now rather familiar twist to my shoulders, I sweep out of the shop.

I tell myself that I should really schedule in another lesson with my masseuse – and isn't it a shame that I couldn't buy anything in the store, next weekend I really must make time…….. I manage to keep my mind on mundane thoughts until I reach my bed – a trick taught to me by my father and one of the few things I am grateful for – but as soon as I reach the sanctuary of my green velvet curtains my defences break.

I cry myself to sleep that night.

I'm actually having fun. I never would have expected it, but 'Mione's whispered in my ear that it's the gay guy coming out in me. Perhaps she's right – I never really chose any of my clothes before, so it was a little hard to tell if I had good taste.

The started off with my being dragged out of my bed at some ungodly hour of the morning. I had hoped I would at least be spared until the next proper Hogsmeade weekend, but as Hermione was quick to tell me when I protested, 7th years are free to visit whenever they like at the weekend. Rushed through a breakfast I frankly felt to sick to eat, the rest of the morning was something of a blur.

Mostly because almost the minute we left the castle Lavender snatched my glasses from my head, and threw them away, proclaiming that I'd never wear them again. In a panic, I tried to Accio them with my wand, but as I couldn't see where they had landed, this proved something of a difficulty.

The girls just laughed and guided me on down to the village. It's lucky for them I couldn't see, because if I had been able to, there is no way they would have gotten me anywhere near the place they took me to first.

The only place in Hogsmeade that I avoided my studiously was Madame Puddifoot's, spectator to token 'try to be normal' girl. Things would have been a lot easier if I'd just admitted to myself I was crushing on Cedric, not Cho, but denial was a strong thing, and I was desperate to find something in me that marked me out to be just like everyone else.

Once I stepped foot inside the place, even I wasn't blind enough not to see what this shop was for. I tried to back out, but the girls pushed me forward again. One of the men working there swooped down on Parvati, and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Parvati, Darling!" he cooed. "What are you doing back here? Surely even you could not be in need of another Contarini Confection so soon? Fashion is a fast paced world darling, and none no that better than me, but more than one new haircut in one week is too much darling!" his words carried a heavy Italian accent.

Parvati giggled, and was about to answer when he spotted _me! _Swooping down on me (he seemed to be unable to anything without _swooping_) he grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.

"Ah and who is this charming young gentleman? Oh if I were just a few years younger…" this time the whole group of girls giggled, and Parvati playfully slapped him on the arm.

"Hands off, Pablo," she told him. "This one's attached……. Or at least he wants to be."

"So, he admires his lover from afar. How romantic. But one cannot help but see why. Come now my boy, why do you hide yourself away? No one can see a bit of your body in those shapeless rags your in, and yet," He paused for a moment and squeezed my arm. "Yes, a Quidditch player. Fantastic muscles, but I may be able to feel them, darling, but if I can't see them then what is the point?"

I was tempted to tell him that the point was to play _Quidditch_ but he immediately went on. "And such glorious hair," he continued. "Black as a raven's wing. It could be divine, darling, if you just had someone take care of it. And you've been hiding those eyes away as well. I can see the marks on your nose – you hide away eyes like _that _under glasses? It's sacrilege, darling, sacrilege. But don't you worry. Pablo will give you the most talked about haircut in the school! And if I read my little Parvati right," here he flashed as smile at Parvati, and she dimpled back at him, "you will soon have the clothes to really show off you body."

As soon as I heard the word 'haircut' I began to back away, but Pablo's grip on my arm was as hard as steel. The next thing I knew I was in a chair, with my hair being softly rinsed, shampooed, conditioned, and wrapped up in a fluffy towel.

As I relaxed into the feeling of warm water running through my hair, I decided that this might not be so bad after all. Ten minutes later, when I felt tin foil being applied to the end of my hair, I changed my mind, stood up and prepared to run like mad.

I am more willing to face a hundred Voldemorts' than I am one single hair stylist with a mission. After that one, last-ditch, escape attempt, I simply sat quietly and allowed them to get on with their work. Unfortunately, I couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom which had settled over my head.

What felt like hours later – and probably was, my hair was blow dried with a light drying charm (you simply cannot use an ordinary drying charm on your hair, darling. Drying is a delicate _process_) and I was wheeled in front of a mirror so that I could admire their handiwork.

While the girls cooed, and the hairdressers aahed, I had a wonderful time staring at a pinkish blackish blob in front of me. I looked up a moment later to find everyone staring at me with what I had to assume were expectant expressions on their face.

"What?" I asked, blinking up at them. "You threw my glasses away, remember? What am I supposed to do, jump up and down something I can't even see?"

And even though my world was a blur, I could just about see that most of them were now doing an excellent impression of a fish. A laugh bubbled up inside of me, and I let it flow out of my mouth. It felt good to be happy about something that wasn't tinged with pain.

After this they hustled me along to _Madame Seraphina's Spectacular See-Nows! _The moment I walked in my eyesight came back, and Hermione explained in a whisper that this shop had a spell on it to automatically the vision of anyone who walked through the door. When I asked her why wizards didn't use it all the time I was told scathingly that the eyes were a _very _delicate part of the body, and using spells on them for any length of time could cause you to go blind. Then she guided me into a small room at the back of the shop.

Here a pretty blonde witch poked at my eyes with a wand, and then disappeared into a store room, coming back with a small gold case. Opening it up, I expected to see a pair of contact lenses.

Instead I found a pair of tiny green frogs. Confused, I brought the box right up to my eyes, thinking that perhaps my eyesight hadn't improved as much as I thought. One of the frogs jumped. I stared. Then it jumped again. Right into my eye.

I yelped and clawed at my eye, but I couldn't feel it anywhere on my face. Thinking that perhaps I had imagined it (I had after all been woken up very early, unable to eat and then dragged into one my worst nightmares) I looked back down at the box. Only one frog was there, and it took the opportunity to jump into my other eye. This time I simply froze, and I felt a curious feeling in my left eye, as though someone had dropped melted chocolate into it. A moment later the sensation was gone – and so was frog.

The blonde witch was staring at me, a bored expression on her face. She was obviously used to this kind of behaviour from her clients.

"Any itchiness, burning or stinging, Mr Potter?" her tone of voice suggested she would rather be anywhere than here.

"N-no," I replied, dumbfounded.

"Seraphina's Fabulous Frogs," the witch recited. "They last a minimum of three years, are self cleaning, and self updating to your prescription. Insert my lifting them close to your face, and snapping your fingers. Take them out by holding the box close to you face, and doing the same."

Here she demonstrated, picking up the box which had fallen from my astonished hands, and holding it under her eyes. She snapped her fingers, and two small frog statuettes fell into the box. She snapped them again, and I immediately felt the melting chocolate sensation on my eyes. When I looked down the frogs were gone.

"We also have a variety of coloured frogs," the witch continued, "ranging from Opalescent Cream, to Lightning Blue, to Harry Potter Emerald. Would you like to try any of these?"

I blinked and shook my head. I had an _eye frog colour _named after me! The mind boggled. The witch continued, seemingly unaware she'd just tried to sell me my own eye colour. "In that case it will be 11 Galleons and 12 sickles for the Frogs, and 2 Galleons 7 Sickles for the box. Please sign here for the transfer of said money from account at Gringotts. "

I signed with out thinking about it. She snapped the box shut, and shoved it in my direction.

"Good day, Mr Potter."

I stumbled out onto the street, still slightly unnerved. It was a relief, however, to look up and see, instead of a blur, the street in startling clarity. My eyesight was actually better than it had been that morning when I was wearing my glasses. When I mentioned this to Hermione she told me that she had expected as much.

"You can't have had an eye test in years, Harry," she explained. I know you never had one here, and it's obvious to anyone who thought to look that the Dursley's would never have taken you to an optician. Goodness knows how you managed to catch the Snitch the past couple of years. You must be better than any of us suspected."

She grinned at me, and I grinned back. Even after the bewildering morning I had had it was hard not to grin at the thought of Quidditch – until I realised who I would be playing against. My grin faded, and I turned my head slightly, to try and escape Hermione's notice. Unfortunately, with her being Hermione, this didn't work very well.

I half expected her to give me a lecture, or at least a 'talk' about keeping my chin up, and firmly in place, but instead I felt a small hand slip into mine.

"I know, Harry," she whispered in my ear. "I know that it hurts, and I can't promise that that's ever going to get much better. But you'll have him soon, I promise." I turned my head to look at her. Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her blue eyes were blazing with determination. "You'll have him, if I have to kill Voldemort myself for it to happen," she told me.

I barely had time to whisper a 'thank you,' before we were swept up in the tidal wave of girls that had brought me here in the first place. Parvati pulled out a mirror. It seemed that they were desperate to find out what I though of my new haircut.

5 minutes later, as we reached the entrance to Gladrags, I was still in a state of shock. When I had looked in the mirror I had half expected to see my old reflection staring back at me. What I didn't expect, was what I found. An almost stranger had stared back at me.

This new person had had fashionably messy hair, with the tiniest dusting of gold of some of the tips, which, instead of flopping messily to either side, stood straight up in the air.

This person had ad bright green liquid eyes, which grabbed you and pulled you in the moment you saw him.

This person had looked like a _person _instead of a messy teenage boy. My reflection had winked at me. I simply stared.

The girls were still laughing as they dragged me into the shop. Suddenly I began to laugh as well. I looked good. It was time to have some fun.

I have never seen a person look as blissful as that sales assistant did when Lavender told her that I needed at whole new wardrobe. Two minutes later I had what seemed to be an entire army of sales assistants dropping clothes into first my arms, and then the arms of the girls accompanying me. Hermione stood back, and, somehow avoiding becoming a human clothes stand, talked with the first sales assistant about colour, cut and a dozen other things I had never heard of.

After the first few dizzying moments I began to enjoy myself. I was shoved unceremoniously into a changing room, and told to try everything in. When I protested that I didn't know what went with what, Hermione squeezed in between me and my mountain of clothes, and began throwing different combinations at me.

At first I protested that she shouldn't be in there with me, but she simply snorted and told me to change. Meekly, I obeyed, and then stared in wonderment at my reflection in the mirror. I was now wearing a pair of tight fitting black jeans, and an equally tight fitting green T-shirt. It was the haircut all over again. I looked like someone that Draco wouldn't be ashamed to be seen in the street with.

I shook my head, trying to rid myself of thoughts of Draco, but then decided against it. All of this was after all for his benefit. And it was good thought, something I could share with him.

Amused, Hermione shoved me out of the cubicle. For a moment, faced with a sea of girls and Sales assistants, my embarrassment returned. But then I caught sight of myself in a mirror, and my new found confidence returned. Strutting slightly, I did a little turn, and then disappeared back into the cubicle, grinning at the cheers that accompanied my little show.

I was confronted with another set of clothes, held out by a grinning Hermione. Without complaint, I changed into them, and the ducked back out into the shop. This time, I was greeted by whistles – Hermione had dressed me in leather trousers, and a tight silvery top. I found it hard to imagine exactly when I would be wearing this outfit, but I loved the attention I was getting.

I rarely showed off in front of any one, and I as a rule I found any attention distasteful, but before now, the exception to this had been when I played Quidditch. When I was up in the air, I knew that any cheers I received where for me, Harry, not Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The same was true here, these people where having fun because I was having fun. They cheered and laughed because I looked good. For the first time in my life, I had fun being the centre of attention.

After trying on outfit after outfit, and having the girls choose endless pairs of shoes, (apparently, even though I can tell what looks good when it's on me, I haven't got a clue when it comes to fashion) I paid an atrocious amount of money for nearly all the clothes that I tried on. I balked slightly at the amount, but then decided that as these were the first pieces of clothing I'd bought with my own money other than school robes, I could afford to be extravagant.

I can't remember the last time I felt this happy. All of us, not just me, are loaded down with bags, and we're all exhausted, but all of us have huge grins on our faces. I almost feel as if I'd just won a Quidditch match. If Ron were here he'd be horrified, and accuse me of being a girl. He probably will when we get back to Hogwarts, but right now I can't bring myself to care.

One of the girls, Alice something, a fifth year friend of Parvati's is laughing at something Hermione just said, whilst attempting to tie a scarf around my neck. I'm laughing as well, trying to pull back, and protesting that it's not my colour. By now, most of our group have turned towards us, and their laughing at me too. Lavender tries to put a pair of sun glasses on my, despite the fact that the sky outside is a dull grey. I protest that I have quite enough clothes now thank you very much. I turn to leave the shop – and then I see him.

He's standing at the open door, and there's a strange look one his face. For a moment he looks like he did the time I caught him in the Owlery, and I think that perhaps I see a momentary flash of pain in his eyes.

But then whatever I think I see is gone, and the familiar sneer is on his face. That beautiful pink mouth of his opens, and he starts to speak.

'Decided to get some new clothes, Potter? Anything would be better than those old rags I suppose – but really, dress up scum in good clothes – and you get your clothes dirty. You may not be a Mudblood, Potter, but your precious mother was one. Makes your blood as dirty as hers in my opinion. Dress yourself up as fine as you like, Scarhead, there's no one that can't see what's really standing in front of them."

I would give anything not have heard that. Anything not to have had to. But he did speak them, and it felt as though something had died inside of me. How could I think that he would ever even want me? How could I be so stupid?

He mutters a cursory greeting to Parvati and her sister, _Parvati_, of all people, turns on his heel, and leaves. For what feels like the thousandth time that day I am shell shocked, but this time there is no laughter, no confused but happy feeling to accompany it. Merely silence, and the remnants of a shattered heart.

It's Sunday morning, and I've finally dragged myself out of the haven of my bed, where I've been hiding since I got back yesterday. I had to fight with myself all last night not to go out on the roof as I usually do. But I refuse to use _him _as a source of comfort. I refuse to even say his name.

He destroyed my old comfort in the stars just as easily as he destroyed my heart. I've barely slept. Normally I long for it, long for the dreams to come, so that I can have him to myself just for a little while. But not last night. By the time I went to sleep, I was too exhausted to dream. Or so I thought. When I woke up barely an hour later, my thighs and stomach were sticky with semen, but I couldn't remember what I dreamed of. I used a cleaning charm straight away, and the curled up into myself, trying to cry. I didn't sleep, but drifted into sort of stupor, where I could simply let my thought drift away from me, leaving me blissfully blank or any rationality or emotion.

Some time later I heard Hermione telling at me through my curtains. She attempted to yank them apart, but couldn't get passed the cleaning charm I had placed upon them the night before. Finally she yelled at me that she expected to see me downstairs within the next half hour.

Deciding that I didn't need an angry Hermione on top of everything else, I crawled out of bed, and took a shower, glad to rid myself of any lingering remnants of my sleep. Cleaning charms tend to leave a residue behind.

When I stumbled down the stairs in my old to big clothes, Hermione took one look at me and ordered me back upstairs, saying that she and the others hadn't gone to all that trouble yesterday for nothing. Going back upstairs I pulled out the first outfit I could find from the many bags surrounding by bed. It was the same one I'd worn yesterday, the first I'd tried on.

I absently noted that the girls must have picked up the bags I dropped when I left the shop. I hadn't had the heart to care about them.

I pulled the jeans and T-shirt on quickly, and laced up the trainers. I had forgotten to take the frogs out of my eyes the night before, so I could see perfectly. I studied myself in the mirror. Dispassionately I noted that I looked good – but there was none of the joy that I had found yesterday in seeing a new person gazing at me out of the mirror. My reflection didn't even have the heart to wave.

I' m walking down the stairs again, and the common room comes into view. Hermione sees me first, and opens her mouth, as though about to speak.

"Harry……"

Then she shuts it again abruptly, as though she is unsure of what to say. Instead, she takes my hand, and guides me to the portrait hole. I'm aware that there are stares and whispers in my direction, but I can't seem to muster up the energy to care.

We walk down to the Great Hall, and there are more stares. There is a part of me that almost wants to grin, almost wants to try and recapture the confidence these clothes gave me yesterday. But it is only 'almost'. I am too disconnected from this part of myself for it to have any real purpose behind it.

And then I see him, and the world comes rushing back. But this world isn't confidence and laughter and cocky grins. It's just ………him.

And like yesterday, there's a flicker in his eyes of something – not pain this time but……. horror? And then, like yesterday it's gone, and so is he – this time with no hurtful words to stretch the meeting out, as one rolls out dough on a pastry board. I'm glad. I'm not sure what I'll do the next time he decides I need taking down a peg or two. It just hurts too much.

After what happened yesterday………. what _I _did yesterday, to him, to the boy I claim to love…… I had decided not to leave my room for the rest of the weekend. Not until I had built up a thick enough shield against the world. Not until I was ready to deal with the look the Gryffindors would give me. Not until I was ready to look at the reproach in Dean's eyes and realise that in just a few days I had managed to lose the only real friend I had ever had. Not until I was ready to see him, and do nothing but sneer. He may have liked me before, but I am certain that what I did yesterday will have driven that fleeting momentary madness from his mind.

But of course, my room mates had other ideas. If I were to tell anyone else this, they would laugh in my face, but Vincent and Gregory wouldn't let me sulk. People view them simply as goons, and I have to admit in public that is how I treat them. It is how their fathers were and still are treated by mine. But in private, they are not exactly friends, but they are real people. Neither of them is stupid exactly, but they seem to have difficulty understanding their lessons. And so, as well as the loyalty they bear me simply because their parents told them to, they have a slavish love to me as the one person who tries to help them understand the world around them.

I tell myself I do this simply to build a powerbase, but in reality I have to admit that I do it because of the warm glow I get when Vincent grasps an Arithmancy theory, or Greg is able to recite every ingredient and instruction for a complicated potion. Neither is stupid. They simply need more help. That's why it always makes me burn when some oaf like Weasley insults them, some idiot who doesn't appreciate the work they put in to keep their places at the middle of the class, while others just coast by at the same level.

It has been the creator of many of my fights with Harry, and his friends. So when they force me out of my bed and down to the Great Hall, I am annoyed, but not surprised. They are not exactly friends, but they are my students, and they have easily realised the simple adage that if a pupil wishes to continue to learn, they must take care of their teacher. Perhaps one day, when we leave this place, when the war is over, perhaps we will really be friends. At the moment though, it's too dangerous. They may love me, but I cannot tell which is stronger, their love for me or their loyalty to their fathers.

I am still grateful, though, for their clumsy attempts to cheer me up. Or at least I am until _he _walks into the room. The lights seem to dim, as my whole being is concentrated on this one individual.

I now instantly see what was different about him yesterday. His adorably massy hair has been cut, and for a moment I miss it, but the new haircut is stylish fashionable, and oh so sexy. And fortunately still messy. He takes my breath away. His clothes are new as well; he obviously spent quite a bit at the shop yesterday.

This makes me remember what happened there when I saw him, and I shudder, hearing again in my head my harsh words, and seeing his pain filled eyes. I shy away from unpleasant memories, and concentrate on the figure in front of me. He's wearing black almost-not-tight-enough jeans, and they cling to his legs, hugging the curve of his arse just enough for me to want to see more. His shirt is an emerald green and might as well be plastered to his body. I can see his well defined muscles, and I'm over come with a sudden need to lick his skin.

Then he turns toward me, and I see his eyes. No longer covered by his hair or glasses, they appear even greener than usual, and they seem to stab right through me. I'm silent but my mind is shrieking at me.

"_No" _it's saying. "_No, this isn't right. I'm supposed to forget about you now. How am I supposed to do that when you look like this?" _

He's looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression, and I realise that my emotions are showing on my face. I quickly school my features, and turn on my heel and leave, before I can do anything to make this situation worse.

Harry is lying on the roof again tonight. He looks up at the sky, grateful to see the stars, and yet almost angry with them.

He yells at them. "You were supposed to look after me!" he shouts. "You're always there. When they Dursley's locked me up – when I thought Dumbledore hated me – when Hagrid was gone – when everyone thought I was the heir of Slytherin – when Ron wouldn't talk to me – you were there. You took care of me. Why won't you now? Have you given up? Aren't I worth it?" he shouted at the cold, lonely stars until he was exhausted.

Finally, he gave up, and fell back against the cold stone. Slowly he lifted his arm, and began to trace a dragon in the stars.

Draco lay on a cold rooftop. He hadn't been able to go back to the dungeons. It had felt to close, as if he was being suffocated. He looked at the stars, and thought of his mother, who he couldn't save. He thought of Dean, the one friend he'd had and lost. He thought of Vince and Greg, who would one day almost certainly join the Dark Lord and leave Draco without the only allies he had left. And he thought of Harry, who he was sure he had now lost forever.

He lifted up his arm, and began to trace a dragon in the sky. "You always used to help," he whispered to the stars. "Why won't you now?" he traced the dragon in the sky, and longed for the peace he had always found in doing so.

The stars stirred again, and looked down to see who had disturbed their long slumber. Once again they saw the two boy, one seemingly made of their light, tracing the dragon in their midst. And the stars cried out at the feeling of agony which, before these two boys had come, they had not felt in millennia. With a single thought, the two boys on the rooftops dropped their arms, and fell immediately asleep.

The stars shared a sigh of relief. Another thought, another brainwave manipulated, and the stars settled back to sleep. They did not expect to be bothered for several million years.


	7. Healing

Walking. I'm walking. Walking down the corridor again. Again? No, this isn't right, I was on the roof. On the roof thinking about – about him. And now I'm in the corridor. That corridor. He's coming; I can see him again, trailing behind his friends. I'm almost there, I've almost reached him. NO! I won't do this, won't live through this again. But I can't stop it. Can't stop my feet from moving toward him –

_I'm here. I'm back again. After last night, I'd hoped that perhaps I could avoid this experience, but this dream seems to be as impossible to avoid as he himself is. But something here isn't right. I'm close now, close enough to see him, and he looks vaguely panicked. That's wrong. I've never remembered before, never realised I was in the dream. That means I can change it! Turn away, not have to live through it. But no. I can't. I'm going through the motions I always go through. I can't stop it. Peeves is almost here, I have to get away now! NO!_

I couldn't stop it. Couldn't help myself at all. Once again, we're entangled, entwined together. The treacherous part of me is savouring the feel of him against my body, even as I'm turning to wave the others away. I want to call out, call them back, and have them protect me from the onslaught of emotion I'm sure will come. But my body is not my own, I'm destined to simply play out the scene unfolding before my eyes, exactly as I did before.

_Oh god, I'm here again. I won't be able to help myself. We're struggling now, both of us, to sit up, to get out of this ridiculous situation. We're sitting up, and I pull my leg out from under him at the same moment as he tries to stand. As I expected, as I knew would happen, we're both on the floor again, this time separately. My body is already craving the touch of his. Sitting up against my own violation, my fingers scrabble blindly for my glasses, only to have them pressed firmly into my hand. I feel no surprise at this, but my expression shows it. Just as it did that first time. I jam them onto my face, and turn my head, only to be confronted by the most amazing grey eyes. _

My God, his eyes, they're so green. Colour of my House, colour of grass, or leaves, or emeralds; things I see every day and yet I think that this is the first time I have ever really seen green. Knowing what will come next, I relax, no longer fighting the compulsions. I allow myself the luxury of his face. My eyes sweep over him, far too quickly, but as I can't control it, I take what I can get. His nose has a slight tilt at the end, and is dusted slightly with freckles. His lips are rosy pink, slightly chapped, but so soft and beautiful. I notice a tiny scar at the edge of his mouth, and for some reason I'm absurdly pleased to have noticed his _other _scar, something no one really knows but me. My eyes skim over his cheeks, slightly hollowed, with the most delicious tint of a blush, back to his eyes. His eyes are darkened by some emotion which I can't place – except this time I can, and I have to be imagining things, because there is no way that Harry Potter would be looking at me with lust in his eyes. He reaches forward, and I know that he will pull himself up, and be gone. But no he's, oh Merlin, he's touching me. Cupping my cheek in his hand. I never imagined anything could feel so wonderful.

_My hand on his cheek, and he turns into the contact, moaning slightly. Merlin, he's beautiful. His hair is so light, silky smooth and fine. His lips are light pink and they look delicious. I wonder what it would be like to taste them. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and his eyes, oh god his eyes. They seem to draw me into their depths, flashing as though made of light. Of star light. Slowly, tentatively, I lean forward, and kiss him. But now, everything changes. Suddenly, I'm in control, I can decide what's happening. This kiss is different, cautious, as though neither of us really know what we're doing. It only lasts for a moment, and then we're leaning back, just staring at each other, and again I'm drawn in by his eyes. Before I realise what's happening, he's kissing me again. _

Oh Merlin, Merlin, Mab, Morgan le Fey, anyone who bloody well fucked King Arthur, this is incredible. This isn't how it happened then, it's different, and he touched me, kissed me. I don't know how, and I don't care, but it's as though I've been given a second chance. I don't care if all this is just a dream, as long as I don't wake up any time soon. Just let me have him for now.

Draco leaned forward, and carefully, kissed Harry full on the mouth. This was so different to any other dream he had had about Harry, but he didn't see how this could be anything else. This Harry was carefully cautious, as though he didn't know quite what to do. Well, Draco was willing to teach him.

He kept the kiss light, barely touching Harry's lips, until Harry began to keen at the back of his throat. Then he carefully deepened the kiss, pushing a little more insistently at Harry's mouth. He tried to keep himself in check, keep the kiss slow; something was telling him that the boy in front of him didn't know what he was doing and needed to be taught, reassured. A small part of his mind wondered where he'd managed to find this particular fantasy, until Harry moaned, and pushed himself forward, moulding their upper bodies together.

Draco couldn't hold back any longer, and placed his hand on the back of Harry's head, pulling him closer, and kissing him with all the emotion which he had held inside for so long. Harry sighed in delight, allowing Draco access into his mouth. Harry was surprised that instead of the peach flavour he normally tasted in his dreams, this Draco tasted like sugar, like the candy cane he'd stolen one Christmas when his Aunt wasn't looking. For some reason this turned him on more than anything that had happened so far. Moaning he allowed Draco to push him back until they were both lying flat, half sprawled over one another. Neither noticed that the cold stone floor had become a bed.

Draco's cock was rock hard, and he could feel Harry's erection digging into his hip, but the same feeling of protectiveness caught hold of him. Fighting against every instinct, he slowed the kiss down, gently moving his mouth across the surface of Harry's lips. Finally he pulled away altogether.

Harry whimpered at the loss of sensation, but Draco wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer so that his head was cushioned by Draco's chest.

"Shh," Draco muttered, "it's alright, go to sleep now. Sleep."

Harry didn't want to sleep, didn't want to miss a moment of this wonderful dream – but he felt so good and safe and warm, held gently in the arms of the man that he loved.

Eventually, his breathing slowed until Draco was sure that he was asleep. Staring down at Harry's face he wondered what was happening. Why this dream? Why now? And where the fuck had it come from? This was so unlike anything he had experienced before.

Harry shifted in his arms, burrowing closer to him. Sleepily, he mumbled to himself, and when Draco heard his own name pass Harry's lips, he gave up wondering.

Closing his eyes, he too succumbed to sleep. He just wished that he didn't have to wake up.

Warmth. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had felt warm in this way, on the inside as well as the out. Warm and comfortable and…… _safe._ As he came slowly back to wakefulness he registered the arm flung around his waist, and the body pressed tightly against his. Shifting slightly, he turned to face the person holding him.

Draco, he realised sleepily. Not yet fully awake, he didn't register the strangeness of this fact. Reaching up, he brushed a lock of Draco's hair out of his face. Beautiful, he decided, never had he seen Draco look more beautiful. With his mouth slightly open, and his pale skin flushed from sleep, he looked young, and vulnerable.

Unable to resist, Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Draco's mouth. Draco responded immediately, moving his mouth against Harry's. As the kiss deepened, he moved his hands up into Harry's hair, clenching the thick strands between his fingers.

Still half asleep, he pushed upwards, rolling over until he was half on top of Harry, and continued his assault on his mouth. Sliding one hand down Harry's side, he used the other to pinch Harry's nipple through his shirt, slipping his tongue inside his mouth as Harry gasped at the sensation.

He ran his tongue over the roof of Harry's mouth, determined to map out every crevice. He couldn't get enough of the way Harry tasted. Moving away from his mouth, he began to kiss down the side of Harry's jaw, at the same time moving his hand towards Harry's cock.

He slipped his hand into Harry's pyjamas, and grasped his dick. Harry gasped, and arched upward into his hand. Draco moved his hand up and down, slowly jacking Harry off as he sucked on his neck.

Harry was in heaven. He'd never imagined that someone else's hand on his cock could feel this good. A small voice in the back of his mind was telling him that what was happening wasn't real, but he ignored it, giving himself up the sensations flooding his body.

He became aware of a voice panting out Draco's name, and then realised that it was his own. Just as he felt himself about to come, Draco's mouth returned to his, swallowing his scream.

He lay there for a few minutes, panting, trying to collect his thoughts.

"No…..bloody……way," he managed to get out, "is this….a bloody…….dream."

The blond head that had been lying beside his shot into the air.

"What did you just say?" he demanded.

Harry slowly sat up, and looked cautiously at Draco.

"I said," he murmured, "that there was no way that this was a bloody dream. And even if that was the most real thing I've felt in my entire life, I'm taking it back. This has to be a bloody dream."

In answer, Draco reached up and pinched Harry's arm, hard.

"Ow," Harry yelped. "What did you do that for, you stupid git? It bloody well hu- oh." His voice quietened as he came to a sudden realisation. "It hurt. This isn't a bloody dream."

He stared silently at Draco for a moment, and then reached out and pinched his arm as hard as he could.

Draco yelped and glared at Harry. "I thought," he said scathingly, "that we had already established that this isn't a dream."

Harry grinned at him mischievously. "I might have known," his smile widened as he spoke, "but I thought that I should make sure you knew too."

"Fuck you, Potter." Draco smiled to take the sting from his words. "If you had to help me determine my own state of wakefulness, there are other more pleasurable ways to do it, you know."

"Really?" Harry felt as though his smile might split his face. "Well maybe I should check again, just to make sure."

Draco wanted to protest at the cheesy line, but when Harry launched himself at him, and attacked his neck with his lips, he decided that maybe he didn't mind after all.

The two boys lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling of the four poster bed that they were occupying. Both were exhausted, their skin flushed from exertion, and sticky with sweat. Despite what they had just done together, they both suddenly felt shy in the other's presence.

Both were used to animosity from the other. Both had had some dream, some fantasy about being with the other boy. Unfortunately, none of these dreams had included polite conversation.

Harry turned his head to look at the boy beside him. Draco's eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. He had been wrong earlier, Harry decided. This was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A hint of pink leant colour and warmth to creamy skin, hair normally never out of place was tangled and spilling over a pillow. And those beautiful eyes, half hidden, but full of an emotion Harry had never thought to see without the usual accompaniment of a malicious gleam. Satisfaction. Contentment.

For a moment, Harry allowed himself to remember exactly what had put that look there in the first place. He blushed as he recalled it, skin sliding on skin, hoarse cries torn from his throat. Feeling his cheeks flush with warmth, he turned his attention back to the canopy above him. Tracing a line of embroidery with his eyes, a sudden thought occurred to him, and he sat straight up in bed.

Draco looked up at him, startled, but refused to be drawn out of his soporific haze. He was just about starting to believe that whatever was happening really wasn't a dream, but he was nowhere close to believing it couldn't all be taken away in just a few seconds. He was determined to enjoy what he could.

"What is it?" he asked lazily.

"If this isn't a dream-"

"It's not," Draco cut him off. The words came out more harshly than he'd intended, but he didn't want to even contemplate the idea that what had happened hadn't been real.

Harry looked at him for a few minutes, then bent down and gently kissed him.

"This isn't a dream," he told him firmly. "But as it's not, where the hell are we?"

Used to hiding his reactions, Draco managed to do little more than widen his eyes at Harry's question, but suddenly he realised that he had no idea where they were. Sitting up, he looked slowly around.

"Somewhere in Slytherin, perhaps," he suggested. "Almost everything's green, so..." He trailed off, and chanced a look at Harry. Expecting to find him nervous about being in his enemies' territory, he was surprised to see a grin on his face.

"Cool," Harry told him. "I've always wanted to look around in here. And as long as we're still in the castle-" but then he broke off, and his emerald eyes opened wide.

"Oh shit," he exclaimed. "Shit. Draco, how long have we been down here?" Draco frowned.

"I'm not sure," he told him. "It started last night, and we both slept. It was light out when we woke up, I think but," he stopped to glance at the windows, "it's dark now. So maybe a day?"

"Oh shit," Harry said again. "I've got to get out of here. Where the fuck are my clothes?" As he stood and looked frantically around the room, Draco watched him with dismay.

"What's wrong?" he asked, confused. "Crabbe or Goyle will cover for me; won't one of your friends do the same for you?"

"They might do," Harry told him as he yanked on his pyjama bottoms, "if it was anyone else. Or if had told them where I was going. But I'm Harry bloody Potter and I disappeared from my dormitory in the middle of the night. The whole school's going to think that Death Eater's have attacked or something. How the hell I'm supposed to get back to there in my night clothes..."

Draco watched him with a sinking heart, the elation from the night before seeping away.

"Of course," he said bitterly. "You're Harry Potter. So you have to go. Can't let anyone worry."

Harry stopped and stared at him with his arms jammed into the sleeves of his top. He felt for the first time a moment of fear. What happened now? Did they just go back to the way it had been before?

"Yes," he said. "I have to go. But I'd like to come back. I'd like to see you, again, like this."

He pulled the top over his head as he waited for Draco's answer, glad to have an excuse not to look at him. When he finally did, he found Draco watching him with a strange look on his face. Harry looked down at his feet, sure that now was the part he'd been dreading. Where Draco said this was just some fun, or worse, some joke to get at Harry.

But then cool finger slipped under his chin to lift his head, and he found himself staring into deep grey eyes.

"Of course," Draco told him. "Of course. If you want to, then you will." And he pressed his lips against Harry's, sealing his words with a kiss. For a moment Harry kissed back, but then he drew away.

"I really do have to go," he said regretfully.

"I know," Draco told him, and kissed him again anyway. Harry melted into him, but Draco pushed him gently away, and turned him towards the door.

"If you don't go now I'll never let you go," he said with determination, but the moment Harry reached the door he called him back.

"Harry?"

Harry turned with his hand on the door.

"I'm sorry, for, you know. What I said in Hogsmeade," he said awkwardly. "I was just, just, jealous," he finally forced out. Harry looked at him incredulously.

"Jealous," he asked. "Jealous of what?"

Draco looked down at his hands.

"Jealous - jealous of those girls you were with. Jealous because they had you and I didn't."

He expected Harry to laugh, or maybe just leave. Instead, he heard footsteps, and then warm lips pressed up against the side of his neck.

"You have me," Harry whispered. He hadn't intended to say that, hadn't intended to give Draco that much power over him. But somehow, those few words, that confession that Draco had given him, had made it impossible not to give something back. Not to stray into the stupid painful realm of 'what if he could really love me back?' So Harry gave him everything he was, in three short words, and hoped that he wouldn't die from it.

Then Draco reached up and kissed him again. It was a while before either left the small room.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Harry looked around, hoping for some clue as to where he was. It certainly looked like Hogwarts, but it wasn't an area he remembered having seen. Wishing desperately for his invisibility cloak or the Marauder's Map, he walked down the corridor in front of him.

Eventually, he reasoned, he would have to find a place he knew. He purposely blocked from his mind the knowledge that it would be all too easy to get lost in the winding corridors of the castle, and never come to a place frequented by people. The castle was his home. It would look after him.

As he walked, the corridors gradually became more cared for, the windows giving a clearer view of the starlit night, the number of cobwebs receding. Finally, he found himself in a part of the castle he knew, a few stories below the entrance to Gryffindor tower. He breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for a nearby staircase.

But suddenly, muffled voices could be heard from around a corner ahead of him.

"- that idiotic boy has managed to do now!" He froze. Snape. And from the sound of it, he knew that Harry had disappeared. He cast desperately around for a place to hide, but there was nothing.

He stood stock still in the middle of the corridor as Snape swept around the corner, followed closely by Filch.

"He managed to get acidic Sanguio potion all over the ceiling of my classroom. And that potion doesn't even contain any explosive elements. I still don't know how he managed to scrape his way into my class. And both Potter and Malfoy are supposed to be sick, but neither is in the hospital wing. I suppose they've been duelling again, although Merlin knows that not either on can afford to miss this class. I just don't understand..."

Snape's voice trailed off as he turned another corner. Harry stared after him, his mouth open in shock.

Snape had merely passed him, as though he wasn't there. For a moment he just stood, gob smacked, but then he shook his head, and turned once more towards the stairs. He had to get back. Ron and Hermione wouldn't stay silent about his disappearance for long.

He passed several people on his way back to Gryffindor, but none of them seemed to notice him. Fortunately, the Fat Lady did, and although some people looked in askance at the portrait door closing with nothing behind it, they shrugged it off.

He managed to reach his dormitory and get into bed without him being seen. For a moment, he pondered the strange thing that had happened to him on his way up, but then his thoughts were interrupted by someone banging on one of the posts to his bed.

"Harry," Hermione yelled. "Harry, if you don't let me in this time, I'm coming in. Don't think I can't."

Bemused, Harry poked his head out of the curtains.

"What?" he asked.

"What!" Hermione screeched. "What! You've been hiding in here all day, had me and Ron worried sick because you wouldn't talk to us. I know you're hurt Harry, but he's not worth it."

Harry glanced around to make sure no one had heard her, and then grinned. Hermione had just assumed that he had been sulking, no alarms had been raised.

"Oh, he is, Hermione," he told her. "He's very worth it. So worth it, I haven't spent all day sulking in here."

"What do you mean?" she asked him, slightly deflated.

"I'll tell you after supper," Harry said. "C'mon, I'm starved."

Harry went back up on the roof that night. Something had brought him and Draco together, and for some reason he had a pretty good idea as to what.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'm sorry for doubting you. Then he went back inside to meet Draco. He just hoped he remembered the way.

Draco stood on top of the roof, and released the owl he held. It was slightly ridiculous, he knew, but he felt there was some sort of symbolism in sending the message from here. This was the place after all, that had brought him to Harry.

At the very least, he felt safe here.

He wished that he didn't need to come here to feel safe. That he hadn't had to send that letter. But after everything that had happened with Harry, he had needed to set his plan in motion more quickly. He watched the owl as it disappeared over the horizon. There was nothing he could do now. He sighed, and turned to go in.

He was looking forward to seeing Harry again. If only he could remember the way.


End file.
